Spoiling It
by Old English D
Summary: Perry's estranged brother calls to invite him to Thanksgiving dinner...Della struggles with attending six high-profile formal holiday functions...Normal, everyday stuff with nary a murder in sight.  Warm-up to the 'Mistletoe Incident'.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Who is Bart?"

At the sound of his secretary's voice, Perry Mason leaned through the washroom doorway. "Did you say something?" He retracted into the small washroom and turned off the faucet. "Della?"

She appeared suddenly in the doorway. "I said, who is Bart?" She was holding a sheaf of small slips of paper in her hand, telephone messages handed off from Gertie, the receptionist. Several long days in court and the messages had piled up.

He splashed cologne onto the palm of one hand, and lightly slapped his cheeks, shaking his head at the slight sting. There. Nothing he could do about his bloodshot eyes, but he felt moderately more human after a string of sleepless nights and endless tedious hours in court, culminating in the dramatic confession he had extracted from his client's unscrupulous business partner. He turned to face Della, who still looked fresh and crisp in her tweed pencil skirt and sublime cashmere sweater, despite the fact she had been at his side for the better part of seventy-two hours, chasing stubborn witnesses by night and efficiently organizing his thoughts and notes during the day in court. He marveled at her stamina, how she always looked put-together and clear-eyed, pacing him in those flattering but impractical heels. Which were currently not on her feet. He smiled.

"Bart who?"

"Stinker. That's what I'm asking you. There are seven messages from simply 'Bart'. Since there is no last name, no return phone number, and no message, I'm assuming Bart is someone you know quite well."

Perry switched out the light in the washroom and squeezed past Della on his way to his desk. "You should never assume, Della. I know no one named Bart quite well."

"For crying out loud, Chief, just answer me."

He lifted the humidor lid, extracted a cigarette, lit it, and made a big production out of settling himself in his chair wearily. "Bart could be my brother."

Della's eyes widened in shock. "Your brother!"

"I told you I had a brother."

"Once. In passing. Then you clammed up."

He shrugged. "Not much to tell. I have a brother named Bart. End of story."

She moved around the desk and leaned her hip against it. "Older or younger?"

"Older."

"How much older?"

"Enough to be annoying."

"Where does he live?"

"In a house."

She kicked at his shin lightly with her stockinged foot and he looked up at her in surprise. "Stop it."

He leaned forward and reached around her to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray. "He's seven years older, lives in Utah, his wife's name is Valerie, and they have three boys."

"You have three nephews? Why have you never told me any of this?"

He tried to take another cigarette from the humidor but she patted his hand away. He glared at her. "Yes, I have three nephews."

"Do you know their names?"

His glare became an expression of affront. "Of course I know their names. Larry, Moe, and Curly."

"You are dangerously close to not having a dinner companion tonight, Mr. Mason."

"I'm sure Paul can come up with a suitable young lady who would be more than thrilled to have dinner with me," he shot back, exhausted nerves rebelling with a life of their own to her comment. Instantly regretting his words and hating himself for putting that hurt look in her eyes, he tried to take her hand, but she pushed herself away from the desk and walked swiftly across the carpeted floor toward the connecting door to her office.

He didn't catch up to her until she was a mere step from the door, grabbed her wrist as she reached for the handle, and pulled her around to face him. "Della, I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it." He could offer no excuse for the hurtful words because she would accept no excuse.

She stood stiffly in the circle of his arms, unwilling to respond to his embrace. "Let me go, Chief," she requested quietly.

"No. Not until I apologize properly and you accept my apology." He hugged her tighter.

"Squeezing me to death is not an apology. Let me go." She squirmed in his arms.

He didn't relax his hold one bit. "My nephew's names are Bartholomew Jr., Bradley, and Brett."

Della stopped squirming. "Bartholomew Jr.? Your mother named her sons Bartholomew and Perry?"

Perry grinned. "Lyla was unusual."

"She certainly was." She let her hands come up behind him to rest beneath his shoulder blades. "Why am I just learning about this after a year and a half?"

"You haven't exactly been a font of information about your family," he reminded her, moving his mouth close to the curls at her forehead.

She frowned slightly. "Touché. But at least I told you my brother's name and relative age. Are you going to call him back? Seven phone calls in two days sounds like an emergency to me."

His lips softly trailed across her forehead. "I'll think about it. There's no emergency."

The code knock of Paul Drake sounded on the door leading to the back hallway. Perry smiled ruefully down at Della and reluctantly released his hold on her just as the detective swung open the door.

"C'mon kids," he said impatiently, "the champagne is getting flat." He took in the sight of Perry and Della standing so close together at the opposite end of the office, knowing that he had interrupted one of those little private moments attorney and secretary seemed to be sharing with regularity lately. "Put your shoes on, Beautiful. Can't dance barefoot at the Adirondack."

* * *

><p>The celebratory dinner Perry's client had planned for eight grew exponentially as acquaintances of both client and attorney chose that Friday night to visit the Adirondack. By nine o'clock, harried busboys had pushed together no less than ten tables to accommodate the crowd, and waiters were hard-pressed to keep the champagne buckets stocked.<p>

The evening had started out to Perry's liking – cocktails and a steak dinner, a few dances with Della – but as more and more well-wishers, friends, and even complete strangers joined the celebration he grew moody as his preferred partner always seemed to be dancing with someone else. He tried to keep the chair next to him unoccupied whenever he was between dances with the bevy of women in fussy dresses with fussy hair-do's who asked him to dance, but was frustratingly unsuccessful. For most of the evening he seemed to be staring across the table at Della in her decidedly un-fussy clothes but still the most beautiful woman in the room, as she held court with obvious admirers, including his good friends Fletcher and Everett McGreavey, who should have known better than to flirt with his secretary. He wanted to spend time with Della, not watch every man in the nightclub spend time with her. He could tell Della was having a marvelous time. She thrived in social situations like this. A slight scowl landed on his face and remained.

Near midnight, with the party showing no signs of winding down, Perry was involved in an unsatisfying conversation with a platinum-haired woman poured into a sparkly pink dress when he felt a tug at his suit coat. Della was behind him, eyes bright with enjoyment and champagne, smile alight with a dazzling mischievousness. She crooked a finger at him and disappeared into the crowd rimming the dance floor. Hastily excusing himself from the openly disappointed young lady who thought she had captured his full attention, he set off in search of his secretary. As he elbowed his way through the partiers, alternately excusing himself and accepting congratulations on the satisfying conclusion of the trial, he caught sight of Della at the far end of the dance floor. She crooked her finger once again and glided through a door marked "EXIT". His feet couldn't carry him to that door quickly enough.

Beyond the door was an alley that ran between the Adirondack hotel and the office building next to it. It was poorly lit, meant for daytime deliveries and a convenient pass-through for traffic, deserted at this time of night. "Della," he whispered urgently as the heavy exit door closed behind him.

"Right here." Her arms slid around his waist from behind and he jumped what seemed like several feet vertically. She laughed delightedly.

He pulled her around to face him. "What are you doing out here?"

"I'll take that apology now." She leaned into him, palms flat against his shirtfront, head tilted upward.

"What apology?" Even in the darkness of the alley he could see how her eyes sparkled. This was the boldest she had ever been. He liked it, but…

"That proper apology you owe me. I'll take it now." Her arms slid up his torso to wind around his neck.

"I'm afraid an apology would be lost on you in your current condition." He nearly gasped as she pressed herself closer to him. How much of this behavior was her and how much was the champagne?

"My current condition is ripe for an apology," she declared. "What's your problem?"

"I'm afraid you won't remember the apology, kiddo." Why couldn't he just accept her advances and let her lead them to where he wanted to be?

She made a small exclamation of frustration. "I'm perfectly fine! If I wasn't, I'd be demoralizing myself on the dance floor begging for an apology instead of concocting this brilliant plan to lure you out here." She flung herself away from him and took off up the alley toward the boulevard at an impressive speed.

For the second time that evening he ran after her and gathered her into his arms. But this time he quelled her struggling by pressing his mouth to hers and gently but firmly seeking entry into its enticing depths. How he kissed her, what his wicked mouth did to her was hardly proper. But she accepted it, reveled in it, lost herself in it.

Perry was breathing hard and wobbly-kneed when she finally pulled away. This facet of their relationship was relatively new, blooming naturally from office necking and slow deep kisses at her door following evenings out dining and dancing. They hadn't acknowledged the shift, each content with the progression, unwilling to verbally analyze or categorize what they were doing. It made him dizzy and giddy and happy, but filled him with trepidation all at the same time.

"I'm sorry," he said with a tiny smirk.

She yanked the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped lipstick from his mouth. "Hush. Don't spoil it."

He grinned while she folded the hanky and returned it to his pocket. "I'm going to be a bad boy more often just so I can apologize."

She stamped her foot. "I told you not to spoil it, Chief."

He grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. He found the difference in their hands fascinating. "Let's go back inside. We can hide at the back of the dance floor where no one can see us and cut in."

She didn't budge. "We can't get back in," she told him. "The door locks from the inside."

He stared at her in the darkness. "I'd say that was a huge flaw in your plan, baby."

Her smile was slow and sly. "Not if the plan wasn't to go back inside. I called for the car ten minutes ago."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Della drove the black Cadillac at first, firmly resolved to remain in control of her plan, but Perry complained that he had too much pent-up energy to be merely the passenger. After forty-five minutes of thinking up answers to "why can't I drive?" that weren't "because I said so", she let him convince her it would be best for the remainder of her plan if she just let him drive. She pulled the car to the side of the road and climbed over him as he slid across the leather seat to assume the driving duties. Once back on the road he tugged her possessively to his side with one long arm and she gave him _**such **_a stink-eye when she realized this had been the goal of his complaining all along. In Barstow, Perry guided the car unerringly to the Irwin road turnoff, parked the car at the most advantageous angle, jumped out and opened the trunk to grab a blanket, taking a moment to simply breathe in the cool, dry desert air.

They snuggled beneath the blanket in the back seat and watched the brilliant sky for over an hour before Della's head slid from his shoulder to his chest with a contented sigh. His own slumber wasn't far behind, a deep, satisfied, cleansing sleep he only achieved in the desert.

* * *

><p>Her hazel eyes were clear and bright in the morning sunlight streaming into the automobile. She was reclining against the door, wrapped in her lightweight swing coat, the blanket covering only her legs and bare feet, curls tumbled about her face becomingly, a small smile trembling at her lips.<p>

"Lie-about," she said as his eyelids fluttered.

"You're beautiful," he blurted. "Good morning, Miss Street."

A slight pink blush crept across her cheeks, which made the light sprinkling of freckles on her scrubbed face stand out even more. "Good morning, Chief."

Grunting as he unfolded his tall frame and stretched out cramped muscles, he yawned prodigiously. "How long have you been awake?" He rubbed his hand over the angle of his jaw, ruefully noting that if he kissed her the way he wanted to, she would wind up with a nasty case of stubble burn.

"Hours." She twisted her watch around to peer at the face. "Since about nine-thirty"

"What time is it now?"

"Nine-forty," she replied.

He chuckled. "Do you always wake up this clever?"

"I'm at my most devastating first thing in the morning. I have to be to deal with my boss."

"I don't know about that. You were pretty devastating about midnight last night dealing with your boss."

"Oh that," she said dismissively. "I hardly remember a thing. I drank a sinful amount of champagne, you know."

He narrowed his eyes. "I can't fire you because I don't know where you keep the pencils and I have a brief to write next week."

She merely smiled.

"I very much want to kiss you," he said quietly, his hand searching out hers in the folds of the blanket and tangling fingers.

"I very much want you to kiss me."

He made no move to kiss her. The trepidation had returned. "Are you okay with this? Being here with me?"

Her eyes were soft, her voice softer when she answered. "It was my plan, remember?"

"If you're uncomfortable we can –" he couldn't finish his sentence because she suddenly came up on her knees and landed across his chest, her lips supple and searching. He wrapped his arms around her, loving the sensation of her curves against the harder planes of his body.

She pulled away and sat back on folded legs. "Why do lawyers talk too much?"

"It's part of first year law school curriculum, How to Talk too Much 101," he replied gravely.

A laugh, throaty and appreciative, bubbled from her. A man could die happy hearing her laugh. "One of your best subjects?"

"Straight four-point-oh," he confirmed.

She twisted and leaned back into his embrace. "The class has stuck with you well all these years."

"That was unnecessarily insulting on several different levels, Miss Street." He brushed his lips across a finely chiseled cheekbone.

"It wasn't intended to be. I was merely pointing out what an astute student you were to continue the practices and principles of a class –"

His hand clamped over her mouth. "Hush. Don't spoil it."

"Don't spoil what?"

"Waking up in the desert with you in my arms."

"Technically I wasn't in your arms when you woke up," she reminded him.

"Has working with me done this to you? You didn't used to be so pendantic and argumentative."

"Yes I was."

He choked back a laugh. "I've only just woken up and I already need a nap. You exhaust me."

"Well that's no good. The point of the plan was for you to be relaxed and re-energized after the trial."

"Maybe I need to get out and walk around."

"Good idea. I'd like to indulge in what limited morning ablutions a damp washcloth and a comb can provide."

"Unceremoniously kicking me out, Miss Street?"

She pushed him toward the door. "Someone has to fold the blanket and put it back in the trunk."

* * *

><p>Perry walked several paces from the car to stand and drink in the sight of the multi-hued Rainbow Basin rock formations in the invigoratingly chilly mid-November morning air of the Mojave Desert. He felt every stressful, sleepless moment of the past week drain from his body as Della's plan continued to work its magic. Bless her for knowing exactly what he needed.<p>

He heard her shoes crunching against the parched ground but didn't turn around, merely held out his hand for her to take. She stood next to him, grasping his hand, letting the desert wind caress her face and ruffle silky curls tucked behind dainty ears as she shared the incredible sight with him.

"Every time I see this I'm more and more amazed," she said quietly.

He squeezed her fingers. "This was a grand plan, Della. Thank you."

She squeezed back. "You're welcome, Chief."

"What's next?"

"I'm taking you to that divine diner in the middle of nowhere for a breakfast of embarrassingly large proportions." She smiled when he snickered. "That, I'm sad to inform you, is the end of my plan. I have to be back in Los Angeles for an appointment."

"Can't you call and cancel whatever it is? We could stay right here in Barstow and –"

She tugged at his hand, shaking her head firmly. "No, I can't cancel. I have to get home."

He tried not to show his disappointment that their time together would soon end. "did you pack a toothbrush and toothpaste?"

"You'll have to settle for gum until we get to the diner. Hurry up. I'm hungry."

He assisted her into the car through the driver's side and watched appreciately as she chose to crawl on hands and knees to the passenger seat, removing her coat and flinging it into the back seat as she settled herself, grateful for the few carefree hours of sleep in the desert, and for the companionship of the remarkable young woman whom he'd had the wisdom to hire after a five minute interview.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Della ate twice as much as he did, tucking away a ham steak, two eggs, toast with jam, and the ubiquitous twisted orange slice garnish. He nibbled at his toast, punctured the over easy yolk of his eggs and spread the gooey yellowness around the plate, but food held very little interest for him. He was too preoccupied with her 'appointment'. On a Saturday night.

He was aware that she dated. Gertie was his source in regard to that fact. Not directly, mind you. Purely by accident. Completely unintentional. The planets aligned perfectly for an accidental eavesdropping incident. He had forgotten his briefcase in Della's office. The door to the typing room was open. Gertie was talking with Mary. He noticed something on Della's desk that required his immediate attention.

The gossip had been harmless, more in awe of than envious of Della's social life. Nights spent dancing, attending parties, plays and concerts, eating at all the nicest restaurants in town, the same things they did together, except they weren't 'dates'. He beat a hasty retreat from Della's office, nearly hyperventilating in distress.

Because since Laura Cavanaugh moved to Denver fifteen months ago he hadn't been on one single date.

Paul Drake tried to interest him in women, dragging him to parties and nightclubs to meet the sister/cousin/friend/co-worker of his latest paramour, but the women invariably turned out to be unsuitable.

Because since Della Street agreed to be his secretary no other woman stood a chance with him.

He needed her.

He wanted her.

He loved her.

He had no personal claim on her, not having admitted the true depth of his feelings. She wasn't ready to know how he felt. She was young – three years younger than the age entered on her job application as confirmed by her Aunt Mae – and for all her poise and confidence, the gap in their ages gave him slight pause. He had enough experience to know precisely what he wanted, but she barely had her feet under herself as an adult.

He had been content to let their unusual working relationship lay the foundation for a friendship he considered above all others, waiting with uncharacteristic patience for that friendship to blossom, and being rewarded with their first kiss almost a year ago. A chaste melding of lips to be sure, but promise abounded in her eyes.

She had awoken with that same promise in her eyes this morning. However, his car, parked off the highway near Barstow was not the place to capitalize on that promise. And as they prepared to leave Barstow, she grew quiet, a symbiotic reaction to his own poutiness as he ruminated and fussed over why she wouldn't cancel her appointment and stay with him, alternating with anger at the conceit of his selfishness in regard to her free time. If you love someone, let them go. For if they return…he sighed.

Her head, tilted back against the seat cushion watching the desert landscape grow less parched and wild as they approached Los Angeles, swung toward him. "What?"

"Hmmm?"

"You sighed."

He started guiltily. The sigh wasn't supposed to be verbalized. It was supposed to be an internal sigh of torment. A sigh of want and need and desire denied at war with her physical proximity. "Did I? Must be because your plan was a huge success. I am relaxed and re-energized." He didn't like how smooth the untruth sounded in his ears.

"You were for about four minutes after waking up, but then you started to recoil your spring." She turned back to the window.

Perry frowned, realizing he was spoiling her unexpected, appreciated plan. "I think I was relaxed for at least ten minutes," he argued lightly.

She smiled and lolled her head back to face him. "I'll take that. That doubles my previous record in attempting to get you to loosen up."

I know of a way you could loosen me up forever, he thought wickedly. Please, Lord, let that be a thought and not an errant verbalization.

Della jolted forward with an exclamation and his heart dropped to his stomach. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I know why your brother has been calling. We've been so busy with the trial I nearly forgot. Next week is Thanksgiving."

He nearly laid his head down on the steering wheel out of blessed relief. "Bart brings the family to Los Angeles for Thanksgiving every year," he confirmed, his voice a bit shaky. "They do the tourist thing with the boys, Val shops, and Bart hounds me about joining them for dinner. Val makes him do it."

"And you always join them," she said with an edge of reproach.

He offered no response, staring straight ahead through the windshield at the highway stretching toward Los Angeles.

"Chief, they're your family. If they make the effort, the least you can do is accept the invitation."

"And how many times have you gone home to visit your family since moving to California, Miss Street?" He challenged.

She leveled a steely gaze at him. "We're not talking about me right now. Call your brother."

He had met Bart and Val for dinner last year, at odds since Laura's departure, his holiday whereabouts not plotted out in her schedule book for the first time in over three years. Della had spent the weekend with her Aunt Mae, Paul spent the holiday with a long-forgotten girlfriend, and Harvey had been newly engaged for the second time since the failure of his third marriage. Pride and stubbornness kept him from approaching any others in his circle of friends, so dinner with Bart and his family had been inevitable.

This year he had thought fleetingly, with great hope, to spend Thanksgiving with Della and Mae. The two times he had driven Della to visit Mae had been enjoyable, although her aunt regarded him with a maternal wariness that saw through the veneer of formality he tried to maintain in her presence, watching the two of them interact with keen eyes so like her niece's, and concluding correctly that his interest was more than professional.

"I'll think about it," he promised.

"No, you will not 'think about it'. You will call your brother."

"What if I already have other plans?" he demanded, irritated by her bossiness, which he normally rather enjoyed.

She blinked, but otherwise her stern expression didn't change. "With who? Harvey Sayers or Paul Drake? A Thanksgiving tradition of nightclubbing and chasing women? Call your brother." She turned and pushed herself into the corner of the seat against the door, as far away from him as possible without actually falling out of the car. She didn't want to think about him in a nightclub surrounded by women. Especially the type Paul and Harvey found interesting.

"Della, I know Paul and Harvey better than I know my brother. We are far from close. You of all people should commiserate with that."

"I told you we weren't talking about me. And it so happens I am going home for Christmas this year."

"Really? Did you make that decision just now to support your argument about my family obligations?"

She threw him a withering glance. "Yes, I'm that petty. We've marched from one trial to another without any break for months, and to win an argument with you I decided to fly two-thirds of the way across the country to spend time with people who disapprove of everything I am."

"You haven't asked for the time off," he pointed out, still irritated, but now with an edge of panic at the thought of being without her for any length of time.

"And when was I supposed to? One trial ended and two days later another began. When that one ended, another arrived right on its heels. I was waiting to see how this latest case progressed." She turned back to stare out the window. "If it will make you happy, I'll type up an official vacation request for your signature on Monday."

What makes you think I'll sign it? his thoughts yelled. _**You**_ make me happy. Why would I agree to you flying hundreds of miles away during the holidays? If you love something…he could feel his expression harden into that stony look her plan had successfully rid him of. She had worked as hard as he during each and every trial – arguably harder – had not once complained about her workload, and yet it was _**she**_ who had concocted an escape for _**him**_.

"I'd like to apologize," he said, his voice a low rumble.

She tried not to smile, fought with her traitorous mouth until the corners finally settled back into a tight-lipped frown. "Call your brother."

* * *

><p>He mourned the amorous behavior she had displayed until his imagination ran wild with thoughts of an impending date, of time spent with another man dancing and laughing and teasing.<p>

But she wasn't a tease. That wasn't fair. She wasn't duplicitous, she didn't play games. She was scaldingly forthright, completely herself, challenging and witty, a joy to talk with, to be with. She wouldn't kiss him the way she had last night only to act in the same manner with another man, playing him off of the other while deciding whom she preferred. That realization lightened his spirit enough to smooth the frown lines between his eyes.

She was still hunched into the farthest regions of the front seat, clutching the door handle, at the ready for when they reached her apartment. He wondered if she would even allow him to stop, or if she would merely jump out as the car slowed.

"Della," he began. "Della, I –"

"I'm still mad at you," she said, her voice rising slightly.

"Talk to me."

"I'd rather not at the moment."

"Then listen to me."

"I'd rather not at the moment."

"Aren't you being a tad irrational?"

She stared at him. Those beautiful, mercurial eyes more brown than green today. "I'm giving as I'm getting."

He doubted this had been the scripted end to her plan and he hated himself for doing what she had cautioned him about. He had spoiled everything, the surprising but thrilling physicality, the easy honesty of her desire to please him. The easy honesty he couldn't offer her without letting her know how he really felt, and he couldn't do that without upsetting her more, but telling her might let her see why he was behaving the way he was…he needed an aspirin.

"I'd like to apologize, but you won't let me."

"You can solve a lot of things with kissing, but this isn't one of them, Chief."

They were silent for many miles. Not the silence he loved to share with her, but a tense, we-need-to-talk-but-I-don't-know-what-to-say silence.

"I don't want to take you home," he announced into the heavy quietness as the outskirts of Los Angeles loomed. "I don't want you to have an 'appointment' tonight."

"That took a lot out of you to admit, didn't it?" She asked softly. "Chief, I have a life away from the office. I have obligations and appointments."

"I know that," he responded dejectedly, her words like little needles on his skin. He had a life as well, but one that wasn't nearly as satisfying in comparison to time spent with her. "I wanted to pay you back for your plan and have dinner with you, then take you dancing somewhere. I didn't get to dance with you much last night."

"Chief, I don't expect immediate payback for my plan. I did it to be nice to you. You are always being nice to me, taking me to dinner, and to shows, and dancing…" ye Gods, when had they started doing so many things together?

He gave a humorless smile. "I'm not accustomed to accepting kindness from other people," he said, soul laid bare. "Everyone wants free legal advice or a personal endorsement." Or to simply bask in his celebrity. "I'll need time to get used to it."

Della uncurled herself and slid across the seat to nestle up next to him how he liked. She knew he had a difficult time opening up to people, resulting in mysteriousness the press found salaciously fascinating. By virtue of being his secretary she was included in the gossip and speculation about his private life because of the amount of time they spent together. When she thought about it too much it bothered her, but for the most part she accepted it, her deep affection for him and how he made her feel stronger than the concern over what people might say about their true relationship.

"You can rest assured that the only legal problems I have are the ones you cause," she told him.

* * *

><p>She didn't kiss him again, and wouldn't let him escort her to her door. She stood on the curb and waved as he pulled away with a regrettable squeal of tires. He would apologize for that later, in the traditional way. He truly hadn't meant to do it. He was doing and saying a lot of things he didn't mean as his frustration in himself grew.<p>

He didn't know how much longer he could keep his feelings for her silent. Patience had never been high on his list of virtues - and what little he possessed had been expended waiting for the right time to kiss her for the first time a year ago.

He lit a cigarette and drove steadily toward his apartment, the distance he was putting between himself and Della – figuratively and literally – consuming his thoughts.

He would call his brother. That would make her happy.

* * *

><p>If Perry Mason hadn't pulled away in such a hurry, he might have glanced in his rearview mirror and seen his lovely, normally composed secretary put her head down and run for all she was worth two blocks to the bus stop, jump aboard the departing downtown bus at the last minute, and collapse breathlessly into a seat as she glanced worriedly at her watch. It wasn't until the bus reached downtown, nearly at her departure stop when she realized she'd left her coat in Perry's car. She sighed. It was going to be a long, cold ride home.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Valerie Mason loved spending the week of Thanksgiving in Los Angeles, the calm before the storm of Christmas when they took the boys out of school to visit with relatives and be tourists. By the time they returned to Utah every year she was deep into the Christmas spirit and a veritable whirlwind of holiday cheer.

This year Bart wanted to take the boys to Disneyland, the new rage in family tourist attractions, even though the boys were a bit trepiditious to spend time in a 'theme' park populated by Cinderella, Snow White, and Tinkerbell, but she knew deep down they were excited and that the family would have a wonderful time together. The boys got along remarkably well, and to her great joy were not yet embarrassed to be seen with their parents in public.

If only Bart and Perry could get along as her sons did.

She had tried her best for eighteen years to coax them into a brotherly relationship, which had been the fervent, and ultimately dying, wish of their mother Lyla. So different on the surface, but so alike deep down where the strength and stubbornness of their mother resided, the brothers had maintained a civility toward one another for Lyla's sake, but they couldn't manage brotherly love or even a sibling comaraderie on their own. Bart had assumed the mantle of 'man of the house' at fourteen when their father passed away, but his younger brother never accepted him as an authority figure. Lyla had leaned heavily upon Bart, admitted to spoiling Perry, and blamed herself for their emotional distance from one another.

Valerie sighed. She missed Lyla, especially during this week. Another aspect of the yearly trip to Los Angeles was to attend to her wardrobe, an extravagance her husband insisted be continued even as the children grew in number and appetite and their finances were stretched. Lyla had so enjoyed visiting the fashion shows held at restaurants and tea rooms around the city, and in the small presentation rooms at select dress designers, and Valerie had been more than happy to accompany her. Since Lyla's sudden death four years before, Valerie had kept up the tradition, attending many of these pre-holiday fashion shows in search of the perfect party dress for the social season at home. She had to laugh at that. The 'holiday season' was the neighborhood Christmas party she and Bart hosted every year, the recital for her piano students, and the New Year's Eve dance at the country club.

This afternoon she had elected to attend the show of a new designer named Estelle, who operated her own dress shop from which she sold little known but good lines of clothing interspersed with her own designs. Valerie had given Estelle her address the previous year and requested an invitation to her pre-holiday show if she held an individual event. Valerie had been pleased when the elegant cream linen invitation arrived, bound by a pale blue ribbon and sealed with wax – even more pleased that the date of the show coincided with their arrival in Los Angeles.

Estelle had recently expanded her shop into the vacant space next door, creating a nicely appointed display area befitting an up-and-coming dress designer. Delicate creamy white wooden chairs had been placed around the room, at the back of which was a wall of blue acetate draperies overlaid with cream chiffon disguising the dressing rooms and sewing area. Valerie arrived early and selected the chair nearest the curtained wall, hoping for the longest, closest looks at Estelle's newest designs. As the appointed hour of the show approached, the room filled with people, too many for the chairs to hold. Groups numbering up to ten squeezed themselves into vacant areas around the room, anxiously awaiting the start of the show.

Valerie was just finishing a cup of punch when she detected a commotion travelling through the crowd, and a tallish young woman dressed in a black tweed pencil skirt and a black sweater with raglan sleeves pushed her way laughingly through the standing room only crowd and headed quickly up the aisle designated as the model runway. The young woman paused briefly in front of her while she sought the entry split in the draperies, and Valerie turned her knees to the side to allow her more room. The young woman smiled at her apologetically and whispered a grateful "thank you" in a low, smooth voice, then disappeared behind the curtain. "Finally!" Valerie heard someone shout in relief, then snatches of conversation thereafter. "Where have you been...same outfit as picture in paper…hair is a fright!...get into the salmon party dress". Valerie assumed the young woman must be one of the models arriving by the skin of her teeth.

Moments later as the models emerged from behind the curtain one by one, Valerie knew her holiday dress was somewhere in this collection. She loved the simplicity and classic lines, the bold colors and flattering silhouettes. After three pregnancies and an upcoming birthday that would land her firmly into her forties, Valerie still boasted a firm, slender figure that she liked to show off for Bart's enjoyment.

The young woman who had entered virtually five minutes before the show began was the last model in the first grouping of dresses. Valerie could tell she wasn't a professional model as most of the other girls were, but she was arguably the most attractive; long-limbed and long of torso, moving with a natural unaffected grace the professional models couldn't hope to imitate. Valerie found herself drawn to the dresses this particular girl wore because of their similar build, and because the girl was openly delighted to be wearing them.

Valerie settled upon a party dress of cobalt blue satin draped in filmy black lace sprinkled with shimmering dots of silver, the third dress the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl had modeled. The fitted bodice was gathered at the center and dropped to a modest point at the waist. Bart would like it, especially the spaghetti straps, which for some reason was his favorite detail on formal dresses, and one which he specifically requested every year. Confident in her selection, and somewhat relieved that she wouldn't be schlepping from one show or dress shop to the next in search of her holiday dress this year and could begin the fitting process early, Valerie settled back to enjoy the remainder of the show, which was building up to its conclusion.

And what a conclusion it was. Estelle saved the crown jewel of her collection for last: a 'bombshell' ball gown of chocolate brown rustling taffeta with a cuffed, fitted bodice and a small bouquet of brown and pink velveteen roses perched perfectly where hip met waist on the left side. The gracefully gathered and draped skirt exposed just a bit of leg, and an attached floor-length half-skirt lined in iridescent pink taffeta swirled behind with each step. There was an audible gasp followed by excited chatter when the curtain parted and the girl floated down the aisle. Valerie would have bought this dress if she had a formal affair to attend, not to mention the amount of money it must cost. The elegant carriage and youthful slenderness of the model only added to the beauty of the gown, and Valerie could almost imagine that Estelle had designed the dress specifically for her.

Valerie had hoped to speak with the young woman about the dress she selected, but was ultimately disappointed. While the other models mingled with the guests, the girl with the sparkling eyes and bright smile changed into a thin cream-colored turtleneck sweater and a blue jumper, the uniform of the sales clerks and seamstresses who were busily taking orders for dresses. When it came Valerie's turn to give her order and schedule a fitting, the girl was busy with another customer, rapidly taking what looked like short-hand notes of the specific changes to be made to the selected gown as the seamstress dictated.

* * *

><p>Valerie Mason pressed her back against the broad expanse of her husband's back. "I found my Christmas dress," she told him.<p>

Bart Mason yawned. "That's nice. But wasn't today the first show? How do you know there won't be something you'll like better at another show?"

Valerie followed her husband's yawn with one of her own. After Estelle's show she had shopped for shoes and purses and a couple of casual dresses, then taken herself out to an early dinner. The men in her life were playing golf, dining at the country club, and spending the evening playing cards with cousins, so she was alternately pleased for time alone and lonely for their boisterous presence. When they hadn't returned by nine o'clock, she had taken a bath and crawled into bed. Bart joined her shortly before eleven, silently enduring her look of disapproval for keeping the boys out so late, vacation or no vacation, kissing her cheek and settling himself on his side facing away from her.

"I like this designer. I practically invited myself to the show after seeing her designs last year. Besides, going to more than a couple shows isn't any fun without Lyla."

"You could take Aunt Ginny," Bart suggested. Lyla had been his mother, but Valerie mourned her every bit as deeply as he. One of the many reasons he couldn't imagine being married to anyone but her.

Valerie gave a feminine snort. "Aunt Ginny has no fashion sense whatsoever. And, she would complain incessantly about her bunions, her arthritis, her irritable bowel..."

Bart laughed. "She cleared the card room at one point tonight with her irritable bowel."

"Bartholomew!"

"It's true. But you would have been proud of your youngest son. He stepped right up and took the blame."

Valerie couldn't help but smile in the darkness. Poor Aunt Ginny. As outnumbered as she by the preponderance of men in the Mason family, Ginny had turned in on herself and become a twittering, needy woman assailed by all sorts of real and imagined ills. Valerie would give Brett some extra attention tomorrow for his gallantry.

"By the way, before we left for the club, Perry called. I guess that seventh phone call you pestered me about did the trick."

Valerie tensed. "Is he coming?"

"Yes, you will have your wish of all Mason men under one roof for Thanksgiving."

"You didn't say anything to upset him? He'll really be here?"

"Jeez, Val, why do you always assume it's me that sparks our disagreements?"

Because I know how you are when it comes to your brother, my dear husband, she thought. You will pick, pick, pick until you get a reaction out of him, and then use that reaction to tell him in no uncertain terms what you think of his lifestyle and how it reflects poorly on the memory of Lyla. Even though you have no idea how your brother actually lives his life and are merely mistaking gossip for reality. "I'm glad he's coming," was all she said.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Perry Mason decided to spend Saturday night catching up on long-ignored reading since he couldn't be with Della, but a call from Paul Drake inviting him out to a last-minute dinner with mutual friends gave him a welcome excuse to leave his apartment once again. It wasn't the onerous reading that drove him out, but Della's coat, discovered in the back seat of his car and now hanging on the coat tree across the room. He found himself staring at it more than at the printed page and had walked across the room several times to hold it to his nose, inhaling her familiar scent, the clinging freshness of the desert air, and his own cologne, tangible proof that he had actually held her all night.

Brooding alone in his apartment, smelling Della's coat, wasn't going to show him the way to balancing his personal feelings with his professional needs. And drinking a bottle of scotch by himself definitely wasn't going to show him the way to her heart. She had become prickly about his possessive behavior earlier and he couldn't blame her. He had to separate himself from her for a while, stop trying to find excuses to be with her outside of work, and show her what a well-rounded adult he really was.

Eating and drinking too much with friends at a supper club wouldn't solve his problem either, but it would take his mind off of her astounding hazel eyes, her low purring voice, and the way she made him laugh. He was actually having a fine time two drinks into pre-dinner cocktails – until some nincompoop asked him where Della was.

* * *

><p>It took a bath and two cups of piping hot tea for Della to get warm after the miserable bus ride home from Estelle's. Chagrinned by the dressmaker's observation that she had shown up wearing the same clothing she'd worn to court the previous day – forever documented by the newspaper reporter who had snapped a picture of her and Perry exiting the courtroom – she was definitely not going to admit that she had left her coat in her boss's car after spending the night wrapped in his arms.<p>

She sighed and settled deeper into her chenille robe. Even she could recognize how her own stubbornness was making things more difficult for herself, but promises and decisions had been made, and she was going to see them through.

Perhaps one plan hadn't been the best idea in retrospect. The past few months had been a whirlwind of lying clients, sleepless nights pouring over testimony and evidence trying to stay one step ahead of the police and the District Attorney, and hour upon hour of sitting in a courtroom, all while devising a defense for upcoming trials and dispatching the mundane affairs that brought in a steady cash flow. Some accused her boss of having a cavalier attitude about the law, but she knew better. He had an extreme respect for the law, which he often masked with an irritating bemusement designed to throw off his adversaries, as he worked himself into exhaustion for the sake of his clients. And because she was determined to do whatever she could to lessen his burden, she was pretty dang tired herself most of the time.

Dinner with the grateful client had been necessary the previous night, but so was Perry's well-being. He looked tired and worn out sitting at the table with that annoyed scowl. She had been partially to blame for the scowl, ignoring him as she had, fully aware the entire time that he was pouting over her absence from his side, but unwilling to condone it. A trip to the desert had seemed in order to wipe that scowl from his face and restore the dimple that drove her to distraction.

Fueling her bold plan was his desire to be with her, the assumption that they would be together away from the office, engaged in non-business activities. It was also this assumption that caused her to make a monumental decision a few months ago: she stopped dating. She hadn't had a date in over two months, albeit partly due to her schedule, but due mostly to the thrilling kisses of her boss if she were to be totally honest. No man made her feel the way he did, and she was frankly quite weary with the whole getting-to-know-you process of dating. She already knew Perry Mason, already liked him; perhaps too much after witnessing his behavior in front of a certain Mrs. Eva Belter. Had that been the actual moment she began to think of him as something more than her boss and friend?

Possibly.

Quite likely.

Most definitely.

He reached for her often and eagerly, seeking her face, her hands, the small of her back, with gentle affection. She reached for him not quite as often and more tentatively, but was becoming more comfortable with the forward movement of their relationship. Last night she had surprised herself – that she could carry out her plan, including requesting the 'proper apology', and wake up so at ease after a night spent blissfully in his arms. But today, when he had brushed off his family and dared to compare his situation with hers, she had never been so angry with him. Her family was a lost cause except for Aunt Mae, and she would hate for him to suffer that same reality.

Having been surrounded by close-lipped, secretive people her entire life, save for her aunt, she strove to be honest, and to speak her mind at all times. She had done a fairly decent job with her boss, and he told her repeatedly how refreshing it was to hear the truth. There were things she held back, details too painful for her to think about, let alone talk about. Some day she knew she would tell him about her family, just as some day she knew he would tell her about his.

But she didn't know when or if she could tell him about her wardrobe issues the brutal schedule of six holiday functions he had obligated them to in December brought about. Well, five obligations and a 'friendly' gathering. Six functions for which she required a different dress, because many of the same people would be attending each function. She had a dress from last year that could be worn to the 'friendly' gathering, but that left five functions, one a full-out formal gala, for which she had nothing to wear.

Being Perry's confidential secretary had catapulted her into the public eye, and she wanted to make a good impression for his sake. Last year she had worn the same gorgeous black velvet trumpet skirt with different blouses to three functions and suffered the cattiness of highly influential women who commented about her bravery in recycling the skirt, pointedly complimenting her cleverness with belts and glittery blouses. To her face. Looking down narrow surgically altered noses. Before cocktails had been served. It had been mortifying, and she vowed that if Perry asked her to a hundred functions this year she would have a different dress for each.

Which was how she had wound up addressing, sealing, and mailing invitations for Estelle's debut individual showing, modeling at the show, assisting with dress orders, and reorganizing the shop's accounting system, all the while keeping up with her often crushing office workload and the demands of Perry Mason himself. She was also slated to model at several shows the next three weekends, and in return for her help, Estelle was giving her a sample dress, offering a substantial discount on another sample, and allowing her to borrow three additional samples in exchange for high profile advertising. Problem solved.

This she could never tell Perry. Men didn't understand how some women made immediate and irrevocable judgments about other women based on their clothing, and extended that judgment to their escorts. No one was going to judge Perry as anything but the remarkable man he was if she had anything to say about it.

* * *

><p>Perry awoke early Sunday morning, despite the fact that he hadn't stumbled to bed until nearly three, and was decidedly hung over. His thoughts wouldn't let him sleep. He needed to get up and pace out his frustrations.<p>

After Emory Markle asked where Della was the previous evening, his mood had steadily deteriorated from one of pleasant distraction to one of dejection and irritation.

The dejection surrounded Della's absence. In a year and a half he had become reliant on her presence in his life, his entire life, and without her he felt diminished. He didn't particularly enjoy social situations, but with Della at his side obligatory appearances became tolerable and gatherings with friends vaulted from stale amiability to genuine pleasure. Her quick mind and wit never failed to turn inane small talk on its ear, and he often kept purposely quiet simply to savor her amusing leaps of focus and sincere curiosity about everything from actuarial tables to fishing. There was a preponderance of single successful men in the group he considered his true friends, and they flirted with Della outrageously, in front of him, the perfidious palookas. It irked him, but by introducing her as his secretary, he left a door open that they boldly walked through. She skillfully parried the flirting, sending amused glances his way, occasionally rolling her eyes or pulling comical faces of put upon indulgence. He watched it all with a smug security that she had no interest in any of his developmentally arrested friends.

Then she would kiss him with heated abandon at her apartment door when he escorted her home, sometimes pulling him by his lapels into the darkened entry area and allowing him to plunder her lush mouth while his arms pulled her closer, while his hands desperately wanted to roam to forbidden places, while his mind fought with raw desire against deep respect for her.

The irritation came courtesy of Paul Drake, whom he had fleetingly considered his savior for inviting him out, in the form of a statuesque bottle blonde named Joanne. Mere seconds after Emory destroyed his good mood Paul appeared with Joanne at his side, a lopsided grin of triumph on his face at having coaxed Perry out to be paired up with his girlfriend's sister, calming her incessant harping and guaranteeing a pleasant end to his own evening. It wasn't the first time Paul had tossed Joanne in his good friend's lap; that had been on Halloween at a similar friendly gathering at the same night club. He had been polite but firm in his disinterest, bored to distraction by her awkward attempts at conversation, her cloying rhapsodizing about his legal prowess, her constant fussing with the too-tight dress that barely hid her assets and that she repeatedly insisted she had grabbed and 'thrown on' (and almost missed, Perry observed dryly) when her sister called with the invitation to the impromptu dinner party. Della had begged off coming, claiming a headache, but insisted that he not worry about her and have a good time with his friends, and he suspected that Joanne had only been called when he'd appeared unaccompanied by Della. To make matters worse, he detected a flash bulb exploding near him and spied the gloating grin of a reptilian reporter who worked for that epitome of sleazy gossip rags _Spicy Bits_. The picture had run with the caption 'LAWYER ABOUT TOWN PERRY MASON GETTING COZY WITH ASPIRING ACTRESS JOANNE GRAY'. If 'getting cozy' encompassed disembarking his bar stool to get the hell away from the aspiring actress just as she leaned forward to adjust her dress yet _**again**_ and lost her balance, necessitating a saving catch so she wouldn't land on the floor in an inebriated pile of gold lame', then so be it. He was just thankful that the photo appeared in _Spicy Bits_, the one publication he was certain Della would never, ever read.

It was time he had a serious talk with Paul Drake. But first he had to make it through dinner, unobtrusively deflect her coy attempts at establishing a relationship based on their previous meeting where there was none, and leave the supper club without incident. She was dressed more modestly this evening, conducted herself more sedately in conversation, but was still too garish and inconsequential for his redesigned taste. Not long ago a woman such as Joanne could have stirred in him enough attraction to sustain an evening, an evening that might last into the morning, but no longer.

The interminable evening only became more unbearable after dessert, as couples moved to the dance floor. Joanne looked to Perry from beneath lashes heavily coated with mascara in undisguised longing, and against his better judgment, he stood and invited her to dance.

She was well-padded but surprisingly firm in his arms, moving with a jumpy, jerky, graceless rhythm nowhere near the timing of the music or his lead. He was distracted by the overbearance of her liberally applied perfume, by the straw-like texture of her hair as she rested her head along his jaw with a contented sigh, by her inability to follow the simplest of steps. Up close she was younger than he first thought, but the layers of make-up and abuse heaped upon her hair detracted from any natural beauty. She was artificial, hiding her true self behind what she thought men were attracted to, and he suffered a moment of shame that in his younger days he had perpetuated that misconception. He was grateful as the orchestra swung into the last few bars of the song so he could end the dance and escort her back to the table, say his goodbye's, and go home. He valiantly tried to conclude the dance with a flourish, but her stubborn lack of grace won out, and she stumbled, her head landing at an upturned angle against his chest as he once again came between her and the inevitability of falling to the floor.

Then a flashbulb exploded.

He let his arms drop abruptly from her ample hourglass figure and took two steps toward the same snake who had taken the picture of them on Halloween. How lucky could a guy be? Unless…no he couldn't believe he had been set up, on Halloween and again tonight. The reporter laughed almost maniacally, turned, and ran for the exit.

Perry thought fleetingly of following the reporter and beating the living snot out of him, but the publicity generated by that act would certainly be greater than a second picture of him with Joanne published in _Spicy Bits _could drum up. With a firm hand on Joanne's elbow he escorted her back to the nearly deserted dinner table, and left the club without a word to anyone.

Seven shots of bourbon at his favorite pub and a cab ride home did nothing to assuage his anger or suspicions. He would have that talk with Paul Drake Monday, would insist that Joanne be investigated, as well as the _Spicy Bits_ reporter who always seemed to be in her vicinity whenever she required a gallant assist.

He stopped pacing. How could he have been caught, not once, but twice, with that woman?

But then, he wasn't married, wasn't engaged, wasn't publicly committed to a woman, so therefore he couldn't technically be 'caught'. His commitment was internal, a desire for more than a working relationship with Della; his shame a private agony for betraying the woman he wanted.

And furthermore, he suspected, but wasn't positive that her feelings for him ran as deeply as his did for her. The photographs might not bother her, because after all, she still had 'appointments' didn't she?

Her coat on the rack drew him across the room for another whiff. He should call her. She probably needed her coat. One evening alone was enough to disprove any dependence on her, wasn't it? They could have lunch and bundle up for a walk on the beach, or drive through Beverly Hills and make up stories about the lives of the people who inhabited those gated mansions, a relaxing respite before another body turned up and a desperate client absorbed their time and attention.

He dialed her number and let it ring. She didn't answer an hour later, three hours, six hours, or ten hours later when he resigned himself to the fact that either her 'appointment' had carried over into today, or she was out on another 'appointment'.

The legal journals abandoned the previous day were still lying on the couch and he picked up the most recent edition. It fell open to a page into which a scrap of yellow legal paper had been tucked. In Della's elegantly recognizable handwriting was a note identifying a particular point to which he should pay attention. He felt the unfamiliar sensation of tears spring to his eyes. Where did she find the time or energy to read these stuffy journals? Was there nothing she wouldn't or couldn't do to assist him in his practice of the law?

Maybe it was a good thing he had agreed to attend the family Thanksgiving dinner. Preparing himself for Bart's inevitable assault would take his mind off the potential mess he was making of his life because he had fallen in love with a beautiful, independent young lady named Della and had no idea how to tell her without possibly spoiling what they already had between them.

* * *

><p>Della awoke on the couch, shivering in her robe. Sunlight was streaming through the sheer curtains, but lent no warmth to the chill November morning. She stretched slowly and for an extended period to time, unconsciously performing choreographed dance moves from endless childhood recitals in her effort to drive away the fact she had slept the past two nights in unconventional and cramped places. With one last arching stretch of her back, she glanced at the clock across the room, which wiped out the lovely effects of her stretching completely.<p>

One hour later, curlers still in half-dry hair and with a scarf wrapped securely over them, Della once again hurried from her apartment building to the bus stop two blocks away, lugging the flat, round case containing her pink Lady Sunbeam bonnet hair dryer, as well as a beat-up train make-up case into which she'd haphazardly thrown her make-up, and headed for downtown. Estelle had two showings today, at an exclusive restaurant known to attract established Hollywood stars, and the other at a tea held by the Beverly Hills Ladies Club.

As she sank onto the unforgiving bus seat, balancing the dryer and train cases on her knees, Della congratulated herself for her hasty toilette and for arriving at the stop before the bus. But as the noisy, black exhaust-belching behemoth pulled away from the curb, she realized two things.

She had no coat and wet hair.

It was November.

She had three choices: she could laugh, she could get angry, or she could cry. What would make her feel better? She pursed her lips and gave the matter serious consideration.

Several passengers on the bus threw the attractive, slender young woman with the head full of curlers and no make-up a strange look when she suddenly burst out laughing.


	6. Chapter 6

_I had so hoped to have this story completely edited and posted before today. However, I wrote it a year ago when my psche was a bit bruised and dark, and as I re-read the story I didn't like the tone, especially in this chapter. After too many hours of editing, I'm still not completely happy with this chapter, but it was necessary to set up subsequent events. I thank all who are reading my little contributions to PM fan fiction, and wish everyone a blessed Thanksgiving. I'm off to Indiana! Yay. ~ D_

Chapter 6

Monday morning Perry Mason walked through the private entrance of his office a full half-hour before his secretary's usual arrival time with her coat draped over his arm and headed straight for her office. He laid the coat over her chair, swept the daunting pile of mail from her desk and carried it back into his office, where he stacked it neatly on the edge of his desk. He then moved the chair she normally sat in to take notes into position. Next he opened the drawer in his desk that was reserved for her, where she kept a steno pad and pencils, and found little odds and ends such as a tube of lipstick, a compact, and two mis-matched earrings. He smiled, tickled to know his desk contained such personal feminine paraphernalia. He also discovered a folder of checks to be signed, dated the previous Thursday. When could she possibly have issued the checks? They had been in the office maybe thirty minutes that day – wait, he had actually spent twenty minutes of that thirty in Paul Drake's office. In twenty minutes she had issued a dozen checks. Amazing. Humbling. He scrawled his signature on each check quickly and put the folder back in the drawer.

A testament to the solid foundation of their working relationship, when Della arrived and breezed into his office, calm, efficient, clothing immaculate, accessories a perfect complement to her beautifully tailored suit, they exchanged grins, glad that their time apart was over, that a new week of adventures in criminal law lay ahead of them, and that with a simple smile they could dispel any awkwardness between them.

"Good morning, Della." He stood and moved to the side of his desk, shoving his hands into his pockets. The grin threatened to split his face as the indescribable pleasure of her presence travelled through him.

"Good morning, Chief. Trying to get on my good side first thing on a Monday morning?" She nodded toward the piles of stacked mail, her smile hugely pleased.

"It is my fervent wish to always be on your good side," he told her earnestly. "This past weekend showed me that."

She laughed and he was happy. "This past weekend showed me that Los Angeles can be cold in November." Her eyes sparkled with mischievous intentions as she closed the door and leaned her hips against it.

"I called," he said defensively. "Several times. You didn't answer."

"You could have stopped by and hung it on my door knob," she pointed out.

"No, I couldn't. I had a point to prove."

She raised her eyebrows slightly. "Point being?"

"That I could manage to amuse myself for an entire weekend without bothering you."

She tilted her head to the side, smile now tremulous, on the verge of laughter. "And?"

"And I emerged victorious." Mentally battered and bruised, and possibly scandalized, but intact. "Furthermore, I called my brother."

Her smile was broad and smugly pleased. "I knew you would."

"The estimation with which you hold me is far too high, Miss Street." He abruptly turned from her. "I have to meet with Paul. How long will it take you to ready this appalling pile of mail for attack?"

She mentally perused his schedule. "You have an appointment in forty-five minutes. We could possibly get through the most pressing issues in thirty minutes."

He turned and paused at the door to the back hallway, his expression now stony with thoughts of his upcoming conversation with Paul Drake. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

* * *

><p>Perry barged wordlessly past Paul Drake's receptionist and secretary, jerked open the detective's office door, slammed it shut behind him, and skewered the dectective with a steely look.<p>

"Okay, I get it. You're mad. Did Della just show you my bill for last month?" Paul drawled, calmly lighting a cigarette.

"I'm not here to joke," Perry bit out. "I'm here to tell you to stop setting me up with women, especially your girlfriend's incredibly uncoordinated sister."

"Hells bells, Perry, you haven't been out on a date that I'm aware of since Laura left. We were all paired off for dinner Saturday. Gwen and I thought you might feel left out, and Joanne was available. If I had told you about Joanne, would you still have come out?"

"If you have to ask that, then you must realize how ill-advised it was to set me up with her again. What if I had shown up with Della? How would I have explained Joanne?"

"Why would you have shown up with Della? You said you were alone." Paul stared at Perry Mason with dawning comprehension. "Are you saying that…_**Della**_? You're – you and Della? You've taken the fling outside the office?" He whistled under his breath.

A nerve twitched along Perry's jaw. "Nothing I say and nothing you surmise leaves this office, Paul."

"Of course not. When did this happen?"

Instead of answering, Perry placed his palms flat on Paul's desk and leaned forward, a hard glint in his eyes. "If Della ever sees those photos, I will pull all my business from your agency, Paul. Don't think I won't." He straightened and adjusted the cuff links on his sleeves. "I expect full reports on Joanne and the _Spicy Bits_ reporter who took two photos of her falling into my arms. I want the reports tomorrow morning. On your nickel." He turned, jerked the door open, and slammed it shut behind him, just as he had upon entering.

Pictures on the wall settled askew. Paul sat back with a long, loud expelling of breath as he reached for the phone to call Faulkner. Only his best operative would do for this assignment.

He had known Perry was playing figurative footsie with Della under his desk for several months. What he hadn't realized was that his good friend had fallen head over heels in love with her.

* * *

><p>The next two days brought no new desperate clients to the doorstep, which allowed for a brief to be finished between the many appointments rescheduled due to the weeks of grueling trials, and for Della to catch up on myriad administrative functions.<p>

Tuesday morning Paul delivered reports on aspiring actress Joanne Gray and her former boyfriend Frank Tuttle, a stringer for _Spicy Bits_. Joanne initially denied colluding with Tuttle to set up the compromising photos, but after a lengthy conversation with Paul and her sister admitted to calling Tuttle with the inspiration that being photographed with Perry Mason would boost her stalled acting career. Tuttle's motivation in the scheme was the premium fee offered by the owner of the gossip rag for any photo of Perry Mason, and readily agreed to camp out at the supper club until Joanne could manage to throw herself into the attorney's arms. A new edition of the scandal sheet was ready for publication due to the sped-up publication process necessitated by Thanksgiving, so there was nothing that could be done to quash the second photo. However, the threat of arrest on a stalking charge and being barred from every nightclub and restaurant in Los Angeles sufficiently impressed upon Tuttle that being within a square mile of Perry Mason was too close.

Logically, Perry realized there was no way for Paul to guarantee Della would not find out about the photos, but he persisted in maintaining that Paul see to it that she didn't. His disgruntlement at Paul's interference in his social life, however well-intentioned, would be a long time dissipating and he was perversely enjoying seeing the detective squirm. Paul had great affection for Della, so Perry was confident the burgeoning state of what he hoped to be the rest of his life would be protected to the best of his abilities.

On Wednesday Perry brought in sandwiches for a late lunch while they finished the backed-up correspondence, jettisoning any and all invitations to attend Christmas functions because Della became jittery and sighed dramatically when looking at their already overfilled schedule.

After the last letter was attended to, Della closed her steno book, gathered the remains of their lunch, and announced that she had an errand to run. Perry waved her through the door, already engrossed in the latest draft of the brief, blue pencil at the ready to reduce his own verbosity. In his mind, the term 'brief' described the exercise, and took pride in producing succinct documents.

Della dumped the trash in the washroom wastebasket and exited his private office, closing the door quietly behind her. She needed to catch a cab to a produce market for a pound of Brussels sprouts that were her traditional Thanksgiving offering. Only Aunt Mae knew the truth about Della and cooking: she was actually creative and capable, but she allowed a reputation as a bad or indifferent cook to build because eating out with Perry was publicly acceptable in her capacity as his confidential secretary. Take-out shared at their apartments was also acceptable. Meals cooked by either of them for the other was a territory she wasn't quite prepared for. She would let him in on this subterfuge someday, but for now, she would take all the late-night dinners at dimly lit restaurants she could get.

Della had been gone approximately ten minutes when Gertie rang through on his personal line.

"Mr. Mason," she said breathlessly, "I'm sorry to bother you, but Della's aunt is on the phone and she became very upset when I told her Della had stepped out. She asked to speak to you. Will you take the call? I'm afraid something bad may have happened."

"Put her through, Gertie. Don't worry about bothering me." There was a click signaling the transfer of the call. "Mae? Perry Mason. Is anything wrong? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Perry. Nothing is wrong. Whatever gave you that idea?" Mae Kirby's amused voice came over the wire.

Perry rolled his eyes. Gertie and her imagination. "I'm afraid my receptionist isn't as perceptive as others in my employ," he explained ruefully.

Mae laughed. "I did get a little flustered when she told me Della wasn't there. I have a very limited amount of time before I have to leave."

"I don't know exactly when Della will be back, Mae. She had an errand to run."

Mae made a small disappointed tsking noise. "Well, I suppose you can deliver the news. She may take it better coming from you anyway. I'm calling to cancel Thanksgiving dinner."

"Whatever for? I thought you said everything was all right."

"Everything is all right. Everything is wonderful. My friend Caroline decided to get married about an hour ago and asked me to be her maid of honor. She and Richard should be here any minute to pick me up so we can meet the rest of the wedding party at the airport. They're footing the bill for a weekend in Mexico."

"I'm shocked you would throw your niece over on Thanksgiving for a free trip to Mexico, Mae."

"Don't make me feel more guilty than I already do, Perry Mason. Just tell Della that Richard didn't want to give Caroline any time to change her mind. She'll understand."

Della might understand, if he could find a proper way to tell her. Before he could ask Mae for more details about the wedding party, the bride and groom arrived. Quickly assuring Perry that Della could spend the holiday with any number of friends, Mae hung up without even saying goodbye.

He was staring out the sliding glass door, drumming his fingers on the desk blotter when Della poked her head into his office ten minutes later.

"Bored or finished?" She inquired.

He started, then smiled. "Neither. Come in. I have something to tell you."

* * *

><p>Mae was correct - Della did understand. She was very happy for her aunt's friend, but Perry could tell she was disappointed not to be spending the holiday with Mae. He saw the emotion fleetingly in her eyes, then she covered it with a smile and a brisk comment about calling some friends and inviting herself to dinner.<p>

"Have dinner with me," he said as she turned to leave. He had been contemplating how to broach the subject since Mae hung up. In his mind it hadn't been so abrupt.

Her eyes were wide and startled. "I couldn't do that," she told him. "You're spending the day with your family."

"I meant for you to come with me."

"I understand the invitation, and I thank you, but you're my boss."

He leanded back in his chair and contemplated her with a wistful expression. "Is that all I am? Haven't we moved beyond merely employer and employee?"

It was out in the open now, the thing they never spoke about directly, the thing they had been content to accept at face value, to not rock the boat with conversations about what was happening between them and why, and where what was happening might lead.

She shifted her eyes to her shoes briefly, then raised them to meet his. "We have," she confirmed softly. "But the fact remains that you are my boss."

Perry slowly stood and came around the desk to stand inches from her. "And a secretary doesn't share a holiday dinner with her boss's family," he stated flatly, as he slid one hand around her waist and drew her to him. His head dipped as his lips sought hers and held them in a tender kiss. "I asked you in the desert if you were uncomfortable with this. Are you? Do you want it to stop?"

She leaned into him, her arms sliding around his waist. "No," she replied in her low voice. "I don't want it to stop. I don't want any of it to stop."

"Then please come with me to my uncle's house for dinner."

She pushed back from him, startled again. "Your uncle's house?"

"Where did you think I was having dinner?"

She looked confused. "I thought you met your brother and his family at a restaurant."

He smiled. "There you go assuming again. My uncle Gerald and his wife Ginny live almost in Beverly Hills."

"I have no choice but to assume when it comes to your family. You're not exactly forthcoming about details. Tell me Mr. Mason, how much family do you have living in the area?"

He shrugged. "Gerald and Ginny, another uncle, a few cousins and their families."

"Just exactly how many people will be at dinner tomorrow?" He may not like the idea of her calling friends and inviting herself to dinner, but she was beginning to warm up to it. "And what will they think of you showing up with your secretary?"

He shrugged again. "I believe there were about thirty at dinner last year, including all the kids. It doesn't matter what anyone thinks, Della. I want you there."

Her hands dropped from his waist. Thirty people. Thirty _Masons._ Good grief.

She was going to need more Brussels sprouts.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Valerie Mason arose at four a.m. to stuff the turkey with Aunt Ginny's oyster and chestnut dressing and heft it into the oven, then prepared a more traditional cornbread stuffing that the kids would actually eat, before crawling back into bed. Bart grunted and rolled over, throwing out one arm to spoon her against him. He sighed contentedly, and she had to smile. This was why she did the things she did for her family. A grunt and a sigh, a strong arm to hold her close. Bart was admittedly difficult, especially when it came to his brother, but he was a good father and she had no doubt he loved her.

Speaking of his brother, Valerie was anxiously excited to see Perry again. She regarded him as the sibling she had not been blessed with, for the better part of eighteen years hating that they had to keep their distance in order to preserve her happy marriage. Both brothers were to blame for their poor relationship, mutually stubborn and proud and unwilling to capitulate the smallest point. Bart carried grudges, had a memory like an elephant and dredged up long-forgotten aspersions to refresh Perry's memory. Perry largely ignored Bart, refusing to take the bait most of the time, doing the opposite of what he advised, which infuriated his brother and did nothing to lay animosity to rest. If he would simply reinsert himself into the family Aunt Ginny and Bart wouldn't have to resort to tabloids and newspaper articles for information about him. His self-imposed exile only fueled more conjecture within the family, who were hurt by his standoffishness.

Because despite protestations to the contrary, Valerie knew Bart loved his brother. Her husband simply didn't know how to reach Perry, didn't understand his brother's life, and therefore resorted to lectures about what he thought a man in Perry's position _**should**_ be. What she didn't know was if Perry had any love for Bart left after the years of criticism and disapproval.

Last year's dinner had been pleasant enough, because Bart and Perry could be individually charming when they wanted to be. It was Bart who spoiled the pleasantness by mentioning Laura Cavanaugh, lamenting the fact that Perry had allowed the lady lawyer to 'get away'.

Valerie sighed and Bart's arm tightened reflexively in response. Laura Cavanaugh, Bart's ideal match for his brother. Only she wasn't. Anyone with an ounce of perception could see it, but Bart saw only what Laura put on display: her success, her beauty, her devotion to Perry. She was a woman a man like Perry _**should**_ be involved with. Lyla had fretted about her youngest son's relationship with Laura Cavanaugh, sensing that she stimulated Perry in areas he couldn't ignore, areas that could divert him from her true nature long enough for her to hurt him greatly. Valerie had silently cheered when Perry arrived without Laura, happy they weren't carrying on a long-distance relationship after her move to Denver, something Bart proceeded to stress they should do. Perry had smiled politely and remained mum, which infuriated Bart and occupied his thoughts for the remainder of the day. Hell, for two days it occupied his thoughts.

As she drifted into a cozy doze, Valerie thought back on how different Perry had seemed last year, how calm and at ease with himself compared to his accustomed impatient demeanor. She hoped he was still that way, and she hoped that Bart had learned his lesson about mentioning Laura Cavanaugh.

* * *

><p>Della had left the door open a crack after buzzing Perry Mason into the building, and was in the kitchen wrapping a casserole dish containing four pounds of sautéed Brussels sprouts with yesterday's newspaper when he poked his head through the doorway. The kitchen smelled Heavenly. Della looked Heavenly.<p>

"What smells so good?"

Della turned from the counter holding the wrapped casserole dish with two pot holders. "It's my contribution to dinner," she told him. "Good morning, Chief."

He stared at her in surprise. "You didn't have to make anything, Della. You're my guest. No one expects you to bring anything."

She handed him the casserole dish and wiped her hands on the muslin apron tied around her waist. "Does anyone expect me at all?" She asked archly, untying the apron and hanging it over a cabinet door pull.

He sheepishly grinned his answer as he followed her from the kitchen, admiring her ensemble of a tan, brown, and cream wool felt tweed circle skirt, cream raglan sleeved high-necked sweater, a wide dark brown suede belt buckled at her back, and matching brown suede pumps. The skirt made a swishing noise as she walked and he decided he would know why before the day was over. He had never seen the skirt before, and commented on that fact.

"That's because it's far too noisy to wear to work," she explained as she headed down the hallway toward her bedroom, leaving him standing next to the couch, the heavy, wrapped casserole dish very warm in his hands. "Let me grab my necklace and then we can head out."

In her neat and feminine bedroom she stood before the mirror and took several calming breaths. Thirty Masons. Thirty people she didn't know, who didn't know her, and didn't know she was coming. She should make him call and tell them before they left. What would they think of her, his secretary, showing up with him for a family holiday dinner? She wrapped the double gold medallion necklace around her neck and worked the clasp with clumsy fingers, standing back to appraise her choice of outfits. At least she looked nice, and she could hide her shaking hands in the slit side pockets of the voluminous skirt if necessary.

She didn't regret agreeing to accompany him to his family's Thanksgiving celebration because it meant she would be with him. Janet or Evelyn or Estelle would have been more than happy to include her in their plans, but after the initial surprise of his invitation, she realized she wanted to be included in his plans very much. She had told him the truth: she didn't want it to stop, whatever it was that was happening between them. He was her boss, but he had also become her friend and her favorite companion. And the kissing! Oh, the kissing was beyond anything she had ever experienced before.

"Della, this dish is hot!" He cursed. "Della?"

She laughed softly and shook her head to clear the nervous thoughts. She was spending Thanksgiving with the person she liked most in the world, the person with whom she could be herself entirely, the person who treated her with respect and genuine affection and who truly valued her. Everything would be fine.

It did concern her, however, that an accomplished, successful man such as Perry Mason didn't know to put down a hot dish when it burned his hands.

* * *

><p>The house was huge. Spanish Colonial revival in style, with arched windows covered by wrought iron, terra cotta roof tiles, and rustic beams protruding from the beige stucco. Della whistled under her breath as Perry parked the car in the red paver driveway that curved around a working mosaic tile fountain. The driveway and expansive parking pad was already populated with vehicles of every make and model imaginable.<p>

"The wrought iron privacy gate isn't intimidating at all," she commented dryly. "And parking for fifty? Is your uncle some sort of Hollywood mogul?"

Perry flashed a grin as he opened his door. "No mogul, just a working stiff who married well. Aunt Ginny inherited enough from her parents to buy this place outright twenty years ago and pay the taxes for many years to come."

He hurried around the back of the car to open her door and take the casserole dish, now also wrapped with a kitchen towel, and held out a hand to assist her. She accepted his hand and stepped lightly to the pavers, shaking out her skirt and making it rustle enchantingly.

"I must admire you again, Della" he said with solemn awe. "I don't know why you couldn't wear that to the office. I like the noise it makes."

She laughed and placed her hand on his forearm. "You don't have to flatter me anymore, Chief. We're here. I can't run away now."

"I do not dabble in idle flattery. You look stunning." He leaned down and kissed her gently. "I'm glad you agreed to come. These people are vitual strangers to me and you work a room better than I do."

She laughed and trailed her fingers down his cheek lightly. "Then stick with me, Chief, and I'll scare up the friendlies for you."

He kissed her again, longer, not so gently. "I intend to stick with you, Miss Street," he replied firmly.

* * *

><p>Valerie heard the slamming of a car door and hoped it would be Perry. Almost everyone else had arrived earlier to watch the annual Detroit Lions and Green Bay Packers Thanksgiving day football game, which Perry never had much interest in beyond a small bonding gesture for his brother and cousins. She moved to the door to greet the recent arrival as a second door slammed and she squinted into the sunlight from the darkness of the arched entryway. Two people. Perry and a young woman. Bart hadn't said anything about Perry bringing a guest, had he?<p>

She watched the pair move a few steps from the car, saw Perry kiss the woman not once, but twice. The young woman, tall and slender, tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and moved with enviable grace toward the house. There was something familiar about the way she walked; about the way she lifted her arm to laughingly wipe lipstick from her brother-in-law's mouth with a hanky. Valerie suddenly wished she wasn't too vain to wear her glasses so she could see the woman better.

"Uncle Perry's here!" Her youngest son Brett shouted behind her, pushing past his mother, running out across the porch and down the stairs. A veritable battalion of teenage boys followed, excited to greet the most famous Mason. The young woman stopped dead in her tracks, her expression momentarily startled, then a brilliant smile overtook her as the boys gathered around Perry, demanding to know what he had brought for them.

Car keys were tossed, and the boys swarmed to the big black Cadillac en masse, emerging with what appeared to be a case of wine and two bocce ball sets. They whooped and hollered and stampeded through the garage to the back of the house, leaving Perry to escort the young woman toward the front of the house.

Valerie heard Perry's distinctive, deep laugh, so like her husband's and returned her scrutiny to the approaching couple. Perry preceded his companion up the short flight of stairs through the arched entryway to the porch, pulling her alongside him with the arm not laden with what appeared to be a newspaper and towel wrapped casserole dish. The woman was shaking her head, face in profile to Valerie as she laughingly gazed up at Perry.

"Val," Perry said in surprise, as his sister-in-law stepped across the threshold. "Did you send that army of teenagers out to ambush us? I almost didn't recognize Brett, he's gotten so tall." He took her hand and kissed her cheek. "Val, I'd like you to meet Della Street. Della, my sister-in-law Valerie."

The young woman turned then, extending her hand with a smile, hazel eyes warm and sparkling, and Valerie nearly gasped. It was the model from Estelle's show, the girl who had worn the brown and pink evening gown.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Valerie took the girl's hand in a quick handshake to cover her surprise. "I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Street. Happy Thanksgiving." Should she mention the coincidence? That she had been at Estelle's show and had actually been within a foot of Della once before?

Della hesitated. Did she know this woman? She looked slightly familiar. "Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Mason. I'm very pleased to meet you as well," she responded. Yes, she had definitely seen Valerie Mason somewhere before.

The girl's voice was a touch low, musical, a perfect match to her lovely visage. Valerie swung her eyes to those of her brother-in-law. He was full of surprises. Showing up alone last year, and now his year bringing an unannounced guest. Valerie stepped back, beckoning them inside. "Come in and meet the gang, Della." she invited. "They're big and loud, but harmless."

Once inside the door, Perry was immediately surrounded by several tall, dark-haired men who bore more than a passing resemblance to himself, men who shook Della's hand until it ached and slapped Perry on the back in the universal male gesture of female companion approval. The women were less effusive, but every bit as friendly, and Della soon found herself separated from Perry as she was swept into the dining room to ooh and aah over the twelve foot table currently laid out with hors d'oeurves of all descriptions. The last she glimpsed of her boss, he was standing with legs planted apart, hands in his pockets, facing an older, taller, bigger version of himself in the exact same stance.

* * *

><p>"Bart," Perry Mason said.<p>

"Perry," Bartholomew Mason replied. "I'm glad you decided to join us."

"I'm glad Valerie told you to say that." It was a game they played, ascribing niceties between them to Valerie.

"I see you brought a guest. Did I miss when you told me about her?"

"I didn't tell you about her. I wasn't sure she would be able to come until late yesterday afternoon." Perry glanced at his watch. It had taken Bart under thirty seconds to attack.

"The phone works after sundown," Bart pointed out. He jangled change in his pocket with one hand.

Perry shrugged. "If one more for dinner is an imposition or you think there won't be enough food, we'll leave right now. She has a healthy appetite."

"No need to leave. I think there will be plenty of food. Who is she?"

"Her name is Della Street."

"Sweet little name. A bit young, isn't she?"

Perry Mason's expression hardened. "She's old enough for you to be hospitable and offer her a drink. Why don't you introduce yourself and actually get to know her before insulting her further."

One of their cousins called out for them to find seats and join the betting pool, cautioning them that all the good squares would soon be taken. Bart turned and frowned at them, then turned back to face his younger brother.

"Do you mind if I have an unchaperoned conversation with her?"

Perry smiled lazily. "Della can take care of herself."

"Where did you meet her? How long have you known her?"

He thought back to that evening in the office when Della found out about Bart, her caring, curious questions, and his unforgivably snotty replies. Anything but the truth in reply to Bart's questions would be disrespectful to Della, even though he knew the truth would spark yet more barbs. "I hired her a year and a half ago. She's my confidential secretary."

The change jangling ceased and Bart stared at his younger brother in disbelief, mentally calculating the timing. "Is she the reason Laura moved to Denver?"

"No," Perry replied cheerfully. "She's the reason I stayed in Los Angeles."

* * *

><p>"Miss Street, I'm Perry's brother Bart." Like a border collie he cut Della from the herd of his cousin's wives, who were introducing and matching themselves up with their husbands and children while filling plates with appetizers.<p>

Della regarded this older version of her boss with just a bit of suspicion. Perry alluded to there being no love lost between them, but refused to impart details beyond his brother's reliance on biting comment to communicate. She wasn't naïve enough to assume – and was learning _**not**_ to assume – that their estrangement could be entirely the fault of one brother. However, her loyalty lay in Perry's camp, at least for the time-being. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Mason."

His brother's secretary was definitely beautiful. Young and slender but with decidedly womanly curves, a sultry voice, and eyes a man could lose himself in. No wonder he'd hired her. And was fooling around with her. Bart took her proffered hand in his, and smiled lopsidedly with a familiar dimple. "I wish I had an opening line like I've heard so much about you, but I'm afraid I don't, because I haven't."

Della met his gaze steadily, taking in the jibe directed at his brother and handing out one of her own. "I haven't either, Mr. Mason. Your brother did not want to tell me who Bart was and why he would leave seven messages."

"Does a boss ordinarily impart such information to a secretary, Miss Street? His lopsided smile became earnest and innocent. "I ask purely out of curiosity because I've never had a secretary.'

Della leaned her hip against the table, crossed her arms and regarded him with an amused smile. "I don't know about other bosses, but Perry imparts such information after I kick him in the shin."

Bart blinked, momentarily taken aback by her response. "I've always considered my brother a peculiar sort of fellow, but it appears that you and he have an unconventional working relationship even for a peculiar person like Perry."

"You could say that. As well as being a very good attorney, Mr. Mason, your brother is a demanding but fair boss. It's my job to make certain he's able to devote his full attention to clients and in return he gives me quite a bit of latitude," she told him with another smile. "I have methods of dealing with his peculiarities."

"I'll bet you do," Bart agreed readily.

Della's eyes narrowed. "I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt about that comment, Mr. Mason, because I don't know you. But for your information, it could be construed as insulting to both me and your brother, and I don't think you know either of us well enough to hold such an opinion."

Perry had been correct in telling him this Della Street could take care of herself. Bart bowed. "No insult intended. I wouldn't want you to feel anything but welcome, Miss Street. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll quit while I'm ahead and go back to the football game. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

Della watched his retreating back as Bart exited the dining room and re-entered the living room, where the greater portion of the male population was gathered around the television. Perry was seated on a couch against the far wall, jiggling a baby on his knee while the child's father replenished his hors d'oeurves supply. He frowned as his brother resumed his seat in a wing-back side chair next to the couch, then glanced up at Della over the baby's dark head and rolled his eyes.

* * *

><p>Della turned away from Perry Mason with a stifled giggle, grabbed a plate and began piling it with appetizers, while the Mason wives once again gathered around her. Someone thrust two glasses of punch in her hands as she headed into the livingroom filled with Masons of all ages, shapes, and sizes. She didn't know where her boss had received his elementary education, but they had been woefully lacking in teaching him addition. There were easily fifty people in the house, from his eldest uncle Frank through Frank's great-grandson, who was happily chewing on Perry's finger at the moment.<p>

There was a serene, familial feel in the air that pleased Della as she made her way carefully around children laying on the floor with blocks and coloring books toward the couch at the far end of the cavernous room. Her own family consisted of three people aside from Mae, and she couldn't remember ever experiencing a holiday such as this. She had accepted Perry's invitation to spend the day with him, but after being pulled so enthusiastically into the circle of drastically outnumbered women, she was looking forward to the rest of the day spent with his family.

Perry watched Della weave her way through the obstacles presented by his cousin's children and grandchildren and felt a surge of affection that swelled his heart and left him struggling to breathe. She was so lovely, so confident with herself and at ease with his family, with whom he had never been able to connect. By the end of dinner he had no doubt she would have everyone's names committed to memory and would likely be on several Christmas card lists. He could already see that her natural charm had won over most of his family, except for Bart, and surprisingly, Valerie. Perry noticed his sister-in-law standing back from Della, regarding her with thoughtful concentration, questions begging in her eyes.

Della finally arrived at the couch, the plate of appetizers and glasses of punch triumphantly intact and unspilled. Perry lifted the baby to his shoulder and stood to allow her to pass in front of him and take the space vacated by the baby's father. As Della turned sideways to manuever between the coctail table and Perry Mason, she favored him with a smile. "Who's your buddy?"

Perry sighed. "This is Frankie, Uncle Frank's great-grandson. His father tossed him at me before I could duck. Would you like to hold him? I've about exhausted my limited knowledge of how to amuse a baby."

"You're doing a fine job, Chief. I think I'll just sit here and nosh on all this lovely food while you entertain Master Frankie."

"That's hardly fair," he complained. "You brought all my favorites."

He took the plate of appetizers from her, leaning forward to place it on a magazine that lay face down on the table. Della set the cups of punch alongside the plate before settling herself on the couch next to the teenager who had run out to greet them when they arrived, rearranging her skirt comfortably so that Perry would have room to reseat himself. In the few moments since she entered the room, she had caught snatches of the conversation in the room, which centered around football and the novelty of a nationally broadcast Thanksgiving Day game. Everyone seemed quite familiar with the game of football, especially Bart, around whom the good natured arguing about plays and game plans and penalties centered.

"I take it this game is special?" She whispered to Perry, leaning close to his ear once he had ensconced Frankie on his knee once again.

He grinned at her, awash with pleasure at the recent rustling of her skirt. "All football games are special to Bart. But this game is the first nationally televised Thanksgiving Day game between the Lions and the Packers."

She nodded, a serious look on her face that told him she didn't grasp the historic significance of the game, let alone who the Lions and Packers might be. He chuckled softly.

Bart leaned forward, having heard the whispered exchange and seeing Della's expression. "I take it you don't particularly care for football, Miss Street?

"My opinion of football, Mr. Mason," Della declared drolly, "is that ninety feet from home plate to first base defines perfection."

Everyone in the room, over forty people, fell silent for a beat of three seconds, and then pandemonium broke loose.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"You could have told me your brother was a football fanatic, Chief," Della told him under her breath. The football game had ended in exciting fashion with the Packers scoring late in the fourth quarter, resulting in a 24-20 Packers victory, and even she had to admit it was exciting. But mostly she was happy it had ended so they could eat dinner.

Perry scooped a healthy portion of sweet potatoes and plopped it on one of the plates Della was holding, then served up a smaller portion of mashed potatoes on the other plate. "If I had, everyone would have been deprived of the best laugh in family history. You said what most of my cousins have wanted to say but never had the nerve to. They'll be talking about this for years - how Beauty slayed the Beast with a quip about baseball."

Della pulled a bit of a distressed face. "He's very upset with you, Chief. I think he believes you told me to say that."

He grinned at her. "I could never have dreamed up anything as perfect as what you said. I was so proud of you." He speared two slices of turkey and placed one slice on each plate, then accepted the hand-off of the gravy boat from his cousin George and doused just one plate with golden brown gravy. He gently prodded Della to move forward so he could continue loading their plates from the buffet.

"How can you say that?" She whispered urgently. "I insulted your brother! Unintentionally, but he doesn't know that."

"Don't fret over this, Della. There isn't a person here who didn't enjoy what you said." He pushed a pat of butter onto the mound of mashed potatoes and then added another.

"Except your brother," she pointed out.

"If he can't appreciate your wit and laugh at himself, then the hell with him."

She sighed. "You might want to reassess my abilities to work a room, Chief."

"Are you kidding? You _**killed**_ the room. It was the greatest thing I've ever seen."

As he gathered silverware, napkins, and two glasses of wine from the massive sideboard, Della stood beside him, lost in the sad thought that by insulting his brother she had made him proud.

* * *

><p>Valerie had kept herself in the background since Perry's arrival, assessing the young woman her brother-in-law had brought with him, and liking very much what she observed. She was lovely - every bit as poised and confident as she had seemed during Estelle's show - with a sharp wit softened by a natural warmth. She imagined Perry probably had his hands full with her, but he apreciated spirited women who could keep up with him. Taking into consideration her reply to Bart, Perry may very well have met his match in this girl.<p>

She strained to hear their conversation as they moved through the buffet line. Miss Street obviously regretted her response and Valerie was curious to hear how Perry would handle it. He had laughed heartily with the rest of them, which had frightened Frankie, who burst into tears and reached out his pudgy arms to Miss Street. She'd taken the baby from Perry, holding him against her in slight bewilderment at the reaction to her words. Lucy, Frankie's mother, hurried to relieve Miss Street of the crying baby and Perry had wrapped her in a quick, reassuring hug. When he released her she belatedly joined in the laughter.

Valerie herself had laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks, which had peeved Bart even more than Miss Street's comment or how hilarity had ensued at his expense. Bart lived, ate, and breathed football and had very little patience for other sports, baseball in particular. She was glad to hear that Miss Street's words had been innocent, a voicing of her true feelings and not something concocted to rankle Bart. She could tell he thought Perry had put Miss Street up to it, waiting for an opportunity to humiliate him, because Bart refused to believe he took himself or football a bit too seriously.

Perry and Miss Street moved away from the table and Valerie turned her attention to filling her own plate, pleased with what she had purposely overheard, as well as with the light she saw in his eyes. Her brother-in-law was clearly smitten with Miss Street, and if first impressions accounted for anything, he had chosen more wisely this time.

"Did you hear what you wanted to hear?"

Valerie started at the deep voice in her ear and spun to face her husband with a slightly guilty flush to her cheeks. "Was I that obvious?"

Bart nodded. "To me. Did either of them incriminate themselves?"

Valerie smiled. "Quite the opposite. She appears to be a lovely young lady and they have a nice way of communicating with one another. At the moment she's upset you might think poorly of her and Perry very sweetly consoled her by telling her the hell with you. What she said was totally genuine, by the way. She had no idea it would cause such a ruckus."

Bart grimaced. "I can see you've taken Perry's side. As usual."

"Honey, there are no sides to take. Honestly Bart, if you can't laugh at yourself - ."

He held up his hand, interrupting her. "I'll give her the benefit of the doubt, since she extended that courtesy to me earlier."

Valerie narrowed her eyes. "What did you say to her, Bartholomew?"

He was really getting tired of his own wife being suspicious of his behavior. "I merely agreed with her when she said she had ways of dealing with Perry's peculiarities. Did you know she's his secretary?"

"His secretary? I thought she was -" she bit off the thought. His secretary? That could account for how familiar they seemed to be with each other, but didn't explain the way Perry looked at her, or the kisses she'd witnessed in the driveway. And if she was his secretary, what was she doing modeling dresses at Estelle's show?

"You thought she was what?"

Valerie knitted her brows together. "I have a confession to make. I've seen Miss Street before - she was a model at the fashion show I attended. As a matter of fact, I bought one of the dresses she wore in the show."

Bart glanced into the living room, where Perry and his secretary had settled themselves once again on the long couch with their dinner plates, just as his brother said something that made her laugh, and clinked his wine glass against hers. "A secretary who moonlights as a model, or a model who supplements her income working as a secretary?" He wasn't sure what he thought about his brother being involved with his secretary, who may or may not also be a model. The women Perry had introduced to the family in the past were educated and accomplished. Any one of them would have made him a suitable wife, but eventually they all disappeared, even Laura Cavanaugh, the woman who in his opinion Perry should have married.

"I got the impression she wasn't a professional model, although she's certainly attractive enough. Have you noticed the way he looks at her? He's gone."

Bart snorted. "She's an attractive woman. Of course he looks at her." The more he thought about it, the more he wasn't pleased with his brother's choice of female companionship.

Valerie dug him in the ribs with her elbow. "It's more than that. I saw him kiss her in the driveway just after they arrived."

"Don't you think it's a little...well, **common** for someone of Perry's stature to be romancing his secretary?"

"That is one of the most ignorant, narrow-minded things you've ever said. What's wrong with her being his secretary?"

Bart pulled his wife away from the buffet table into the far corner of the dining room. "We're talking about a man who graduated high school at sixteen, finished college in three years and law school in two, and has become a very successful attorney. He should be dating women who are on an equal plane with him and would challenge him."

"Bart, Perry graduated early because he was bored and impatient, not because he was the most brilliant student enrolled. And when did you become such a snob about what people do for a living? Perry has dated plenty of challenging women in the past but they didn't make him happy. Laura made him absolutely miserable, and my dear husband, she was **_particularly_** challenging."

Bart bristled. "Laura was perfect for him. With his charisma and her ambition, they could have been a political force to reckon with."

Valerie rolled her eyes. "Honey, Perry has no politcal aspirations. He and Laura wanted very different things in life, and it's probably a good thing they didn't get married. He looks happier and more at ease than he has in years, and I think Miss Street has just about everything to do with it. We owe it to Perry to be welcoming."

Bart maintained a hard expression. "Val, I don't owe my brother a damn thing. He shows up once a year and expects us to fawn all over him, but I won't do it."

"He doesn't expect any such thing, Bart. He's been nothing but gracious with everyone. If anything, he's been very quiet. She's done most of the talking."

"Don't remind me."

Valerie placed her left hand on her husband's cheek. "Bartholomew, I love you, but you don't make it easy. Perry is the closest thing to a sibling I've ever had, and during our entire marriage I've had to keep him at arm's length. I'd like to know him better, and I would like the boys to know him better."

"It's a bit late in the game for the boys to get cozy with Uncle Perry."

Valerie slapped his face twice, not very hard. "Grant me this wish, Bart. Brad is sitting with Perry and Miss Street right now, and it looks like they're having a fine time. I want that for him. I want it for all my boys." Her blue eyes were gently pleading.

"They're probably talking about baseball," Bart groused.

* * *

><p>The teenage boys tumbled in to announce a bocce ball tournament after everyone was finished eating, and 'Uncle' Perry was dragged outside to participate, along with just about every male over the age of five, leaving the women to manage the clean-up by themselves. Della spent nearly an hour in the kitchen with Aunt Ginny and an assortment of Mason wives and girlfriends, laughing as they told stories about their husbands and children. A few stories about Perry, the youngest cousin, made their way into the lively conversation, which delighted Della. In turn she was cajoled into telling them about the strange characters who found their way to Perry for help, as well as about his courtroom dramatics they had only read about in the newspapers.<p>

* * *

><p>Valerie found Della seated on the steps of the deck as she watched the lively bocce ball tournament being played on the expansive back lawn after having been shooed from the kitchen.<p>

"May I join you, Miss Street?"

Della looked up in surprise, not having heard the older woman approach. She smiled. "Of course. You can help me identify the players."

Valerie laughed as she seated herself on the step next to Della. The steps wrapped around the entire expanse of the wooden deck, and acted as bleachers for those who were either not currently playing or those who were merely spectators. "I might not be much help to you in that regard. They all look so much alike from a distance I sometimes can't pick out my own husband."

Della flashed a smile in agreement. "If Perry hadn't waved when I came out, I wouldn't have known it was him." She turned her face toward the progressing tournament, to the throng of Mason men scattered about the wall-in back yard. She tucked her skirt closer to her. "Do you have enough room? I'm afraid this skirt gets away from me sometimes."

Valerie couldn't believe Miss Street had given her the opening she had been hoping for all day. "It's gorgeous. And I love the rustling silk underskirt. Is it an Estelle original?"

Della stopped fidgeting with her skirt and raised startled eyes to Valerie Mason. "H-how do you know about Estelle?"

Valerie laid a gentle hand on the Della's arm. "I was at Estelle's show, dear," she said quietly.

Della's eyes widened even more. "Oh!" she exclaimed as Valerie's familiarity became clear, "you were seated by the curtain! I thought you looked familiar, but I couldn't place you. Please forgive me."

"Nonsense, no forgiveness necessary. You were too busy with the show for members of the audience to make an impression on you. But you made one on me. Imagine my surprise when you showed up as Perry's guest."

A sudden flush tinted Della's cheeks a shade darker. "Mrs. Mason, I -"

"There are too many Mrs. Masons around here. I'm Valerie. Do you model often, Della?"

Della hesitated. "This is my first attempt - as a favor to Estelle." It wasn't exactly an untruth. "I wandered into the store the day it opened and bought a suit for interviewing. I was new to Los Angeles and so was Estelle. My purchase was her first sale. We've been friends ever since."

Valerie smiled. "She is very talented. And I think she's found a muse in you. The dresses you wore were the most lovely in the show - and that ball gown!"

Della's smile in return was dazzling. "Isn't it gorgeous? Every time I wear it I feel like a princess. Did you buy a dress?"

"I did indeed. One you wore - the blue tafetta with the overlay of black lace."

"You're going to look stunning. I'm wearing it next week to Harvey's - " she broke off with another sudden flush.

"Is Harvey Sayers still hanging around Perry?" Valerie sensed the girl was hiding something and jumped on the mention of Harvey to cover her discomfort. "Those two used to get into so much trouble together."

"So I've heard," Della said with a laugh, grateful to not be talking about dresses.

"I take it Harvey still hosts a holiday kick-off party? I've heard stories about that party. Are you sure you want to go?"

"I went last year and there was no cataclysmic event."

"Maybe age has mellowed Harvey," Valerie mused. "You say you attended the party last year. How long have you known Perry?"

Della pulled her knees back slightly and wrapped her arms around them. "About a year and a half. I'm sure by now you know I'm his secretary."

"My husband told me. But you're much more than his secretary, aren't you Della? I must admit I saw him kiss you."

Della's flush this time was a deep crimson and there was a swoosh of sound in her ears. "I - we. . . we're friends. We work very well together."

Valerie again laid her hand on Della's arm. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, Della. The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable, but I've known Perry half his life, and I've never seen him like this. He's relaxed and pleasant, and it's obvious you're important - very important - to him. He's looking at you right now, by the way. He's always looking at you." Valerie was quiet for a moment, then cleared her throat. "Forgive me for being forward, but I believe you are responsible for the difference in him. I have great affection for my brother-in-law and want him to be happy - to have a future with someone who he makes happy in return. I think you are that someone, Della."

It took all of Della's resolve not to seek out her boss's gaze, for moral support or to plead with him to rescue her from his sister-in-law's gently prying questions and spot-on observations. She wasn't offended by Valerie's words, because they originated from sincere feelings for Perry, but that didn't mean she was totally comfortable with them. "I love my job," she said quietly. "It's an adventure a minute working with him, and we spend a lot of time together. He's different from any boss - any man - I've ever known. He respects me and what I contribute to his practice, and we help people. Everything else is..." she trailed off into silence, unable to put into words the blossoming state of their affection, but her expression told Valerie everything she needed to know.

Valerie smiled. "Everything else is written on your faces." She unwrapped her arms from around her legs and pushed herself up from the step. "I'm going back inside to finish with kitchen duty." Della attempted to rise and go inside to help but Valerie stopped her. "No - you stay here. You're our guest. Besides, you've contributed enough already, what with those marvelous Brussels sprouts. You really must give me the recipe. Even the kids ate them."

"I'm glad you enjoyed them. I'll write down how to prepare them before we leave."

Valerie nodded in the direction of the yard. "Here comes Perry. I'm assuming you don't want him to know about how we initially met?"

Della sighed in relief. "I - I haven't said anything to him about what I'm doing for Estelle. Please don't mention it. I have my reasons for not telling him."

Valerie moved her eyes from those of the girl on the steps to her approaching brother-in-law. Her voice was soft as her eyes returned to Della's in a look of feminine understanding. "Don't worry, dear. Your secret is safe with me."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Perry sat down next to Della, sprawling on the steps in an exaggerated state of exhaustion after Valerie excused herself. "Those kids," he declared, "generate more energy than the Hoover Dam. I need a break."

"Don't give me that. You're having the time of your life."

He grinned. "It's not as bad as I thought it would be," he admitted. "I like that Bart's boys are all teenagers. They have personalities now."

She dug him in the ribs with her elbow. "Kids have personalities at all ages. Even Frankie has a personality."

"Laughing and crying on an alternating schedule with eating and dirtying a diaper does not a personality make," he quipped with a twinkle in his eye.

"You enjoyed holding him and you know it."

"I _**tolerated**_ holding him. I _**enjoy**_ holding you."

She gazed at him with a blasé gleam in her eye. "Aren't we forward, Mr. Mason."

His grin vanished. "I'm going to be forward until you say stop, Della. I told you that."

"Nowhere in my comment was the word 'stop'." Her voice was low, gentle, but firm.

He took her hand, tangling his fingers with hers. "Are you having a nice day?"

She nodded. "Everyone has been wonderful. And Aunt Ginny told all sorts of stories about when you were a child while we were doing dishes."

"Did she. You do realize she's a bit daft."

Della's eyes sparkled with merriment. "She's perfectly lovely and as far as I can tell, in complete control of her faculties."

"I hope she didn't tell you about the milk bottle."

"No story about a milk bottle. But now you've piqued my curiosity. I'll have another talk with her." She made a move to stand up, but Perry laughed and held fast to her hand.

"Never mind about the milk bottle. Stay here with me until I have to rejoin the game."

She settled herself close to him with a faint rustling of skirts. A slow smile spread across his face. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Your skirt," he replied to her silent question. "It made that noise again."

"That settles it. I will never, ever wear this skirt to the office. Actually, I may never wear it again, period."

"I have a proposition," he said abruptly. "After the tournament and another piece of pie, I'll drive you home and you demonstrate how it makes that noise."

She lowered her eyes to his. "Stop," she said.

He brought her hand to his lips gently. "I see the line drawn in the sand, baby."

One of the boys hollered at him to rejoin the game at that moment. Perry disentangled his fingers from hers and placed his hand atop her head to use as leverage getting to his feet, purposely mussing her hair in the process. She laughed and swatted at his arm. "Show those youngsters how it's done, Chief," she called after him.

* * *

><p>Bart turned from the window as his brother strode across the lawn to rejoin his sons in playing the game. He had left the game himself a few moments ago to answer the call of nature and on his way back outside had been presented with the scene of Perry and his secretary on the steps. He couldn't hear their words, but as Valerie had observed, they appeared to communicate easily and with great enjoyment. Grudgingly he had to admit that Miss Street had impressed everyone from Uncle Frank down to Frankie with her open friendliness – as well as with that pointed put-down of football – and unflattering comparisons to Laura Cavanaugh's impression on the family made their way to his mind. He had been in the minority for liking Laura. Whenever she accompanied Perry to family gatherings she spent a great deal of time with him talking about her life in Los Angeles with Perry, about their plans to practice law together, about the parties they hosted and attended, about their travels. He loved Valerie with his entire heart, but there was something about Laura that stirred him. She wasn't as beautiful to him as Valerie, or even Miss Street, but she possessed an air of exposed sex appeal that more than made up for it. He was happy and satisfied with his life as a teacher and coach, with Valerie and their amazing sons, but he sometimes envied Perry his life. The celebrity, the parties, the excitement, Laura. How could Valerie maintain Perry had been unhappy all those years with a woman such as Laura?<p>

He hadn't taken but a few steps from the window when Valerie appeared in the doorway of the mudroom that led to the back deck. She placed her hands on slim hips, filling the space.

"Did you hear what you wanted to hear?" She asked, turning his question from her earlier eavesdropping episode on him.

He smiled. "Didn't hear a thing. I'm inside and they're outside."

"Why don't you go out there and join them?"

"Can't. He left her to continue playing the game."

"Then you should go out and talk with her."

"I've already talked with her," he reminded her, irritated.

"You mean you already talked _**at**_ her, Bart. Go out and talk to her, this time with an open mind."

"Val, why are you pushing me at her like this? The world won't end if I don't talk to her again today."

"I just thought you might like to get to know your future sister-in-law better," she told him evenly.

* * *

><p>"Is this seat taken?"<p>

Della had been expecting Bart to show up eventually after Valerie left. "No. Sit down, please."

Bart sat next to her with the same ease of movement as his brother. "Enjoying the game?"

Della nodded. "I think I now know more about bocce ball than I ever thought I would, considering I've never heard of it before. Your sons are very good. My money is on their team to take the tournament."

Bart laughed. "Don't tell me George and Bob have organized a betting pool!"

"They most certainly have. I just put a dollar on them to win." She grinned. "Of course, I hedged that bet with another on Perry's team."

"You have great loyalty for him, don't you?"

"He appreciates and respects my contributions to his practice," she replied evasively.

"You are nearly as mysterious as my brother, Miss Street."

"Your brother isn't mysterious, Mr. Mason. He's merely a very private person."

Bart studied her profile appreciatively. "There's that loyalty again. And I suspect a comment as well on your own desire to fend off any questions I may ask about you and my brother?"

"Not at all. You may not like the answers I give, but fire away."

Bart laughed out loud. "You sound just like him. All right, I'll dive right in. What are your intentions toward my brother, Miss Street?"

She turned her head and regarded him with bemusement. "That's quite a dive."

"I'm not one for extended small talk."

"I'm accustomed to dealing with that," she told him with a faint smile. "All right, Mr. Mason here goes. My intentions are to be the best secretary Perry has ever had and to assist him in defending his clients to the best of his prodigious abilities."

"Come, come, Miss Street. If those were your only intentions, you wouldn't be here with him today."

Her wide-spaced eyes reminded him of Valerie's – not in color or shape, but in their expressiveness. Their color deepened as the sparkle of amusement fled. "I'm here today because he asked me," she replied calmly. "He's very persuasive."

Bart studied her again, this time face-to-face. "I get it. He's pursuing you. Do you intend to let him catch you?" Valerie was convinced this girl would one day bear his last name. He wanted to know for himself.

She let him study her for a moment longer before replying. "Maybe."

* * *

><p>Perry noticed out of the corner of his eye Bart seating himself next to Della, but couldn't extricate himself from the game to run interference. He had no doubt Della could handle his brother, but he didn't want Bart to take the edge off her enjoyment of the day. He could only imagine what Bart might be saying, and he fervently hoped he wouldn't mention Laura Cavanaugh. Bart had been taken in by Laura's accomplishments and her affected charm, by the plans she had made for when he eventually married her. Laura had deluded herself for a long time that their relationship was headed toward permanence, that their volatile conversations and incinerating physical encounters were aberrations and not the norm.<p>

Just as Perry found an excuse to leave the game, Della stood up and walked away from Bart, leaving him to join a group of his cousin's wives who were tending the youngest Mason boys. He decided to brave another discussion with his brother and made his way to the wooden steps once more.

Bart waited until his brother took a seat next to him to speak. "Too late. I've already scared her away."

"I doubt that," Perry countered matter-of-factly. "She probably tired of your intrusive questions and sought refuge elsewhere. I told you earlier she could take care of herself."

"I should have listened to you," Bart admitted ruefully. "She's pretty much had me for lunch today."

Perry laughed. "Imagine how my days are with her. I often don't know if I'm coming or going."

Bart reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered it to Perry, and the brothers lit up from a single match.

"I'm not entirely pleased you have such affection for your secretary, Perry."

"Then it's a good thing your opinion in that regard means less than nothing to me."

Bart blew twin streams of smoke through his nostrils in annoyance. "Dammit, Perry –"

"Bart," Perry interrupted, "all my life I've gotten nothing but disapproval from you. I'm immune to it. What I'm not immune to is Della."

Bart sucked on his cigarette almost viciously. "But it's so clichéd and beneath you to be involved with your secretary."

Perry stubbed out his cigarette on the step and tossed it into the bushes. Let the gardener deal with it. "Bart, that lady is heads and shoulders above me in every human aspect and I won't have you disparaging her _**or**_ what you suppose our relationship might be. She saved my practice after the incompetent secretary Laura hired nearly wrecked my reputation and impugned my integrity. Any success I've had recently is directly related to her and what she brings to my life, and I thank the Lord for placing her on my doorstep when I needed her so desperately."

"In other words, she's 'the one'?" Bart had never seen his brother like this, a combination of steeliness and vulnerability. It was also the most frank, honest conversation he'd ever had with him. Maybe he could open his mind to Miss Street if she was the root of Perry's personality shift.

Perry stole a look toward where Della was seated with the Mason wives. Frankie had once again found his way into her arms, and she was having an animated one-sided conversation with the baby, who grinned delightedly at her every word. The smile that overtook his brother's face reminded Bart of how he must look at Valerie. He had to hand it to his wife. She may have gotten it right and Miss Street would someday be Mrs. Perry Mason.

"I've never been so sure about anything in my life," Perry said with simple conviction.

Bart ground out his own cigarette and followed Perry's lead by tossing it into the bushes. He gravely extended his hand. "Then let me be the first to congratulate you, little brother."

* * *

><p>"Now that's what I like to see," Valerie said behind them. "Brothers getting along." She insinuated herself between them on the step and linked arms with each. "This was my Thanksgiving wish. My husband and his brother together for the holiday, getting along."<p>

Bart and Perry exchanged glances over her head. "We've managed a temporary truce," Bart told his wife.

"Della will draw up it up on Monday for signature," Perry added.

"You'd make her work for something she was responsible for?"

Bart and Perry exchanged glances again over her head. "It probably should be kept in the family," Bart said casually.

Valerie's smile was huge. "I knew it!" she exclaimed.

Perry ducked his head and put a finger to his lips. "Shhh, Val. There are several carts in front of the horse here."

"Nonsense. Even Frankie can see how you two feel about each other. Just tell her, Perry."

"Truce, remember? No more telling me what I should or should not do. It's complicated enough. And for the love of Mike, don't tell anyone, including Della."

Bart shrugged. "I've gotten exactly nowhere with either of them, Val. The only person more stubborn than Miss Street is Perry, and the only person more enigmatic than Perry is Miss Street."

"She has a first name," Perry reminded him tartly.

"I noticed that she doesn't call you by your first name." Bart leaned forward to see past his wife.

Perry smiled almost to himself. "It's a private joke."

"God, just sweep her off her feet and marry her before I get nauseous from the romance of it all." Valerie shook his arm.

Perry tensed suddenly. "Val, don't. I told you, it's complicated."

Valerie laid her head on his shoulder briefly. "All right, brother-in-law. I'll leave it to you to handle your own love life. And I promise Bart won't interfere anymore either."

"Now wait a minute, Val," Bart protested.

"Would you get lost, honey? I haven't had any alone time with Perry today."

"That's a fine way to speak to your adoring husband," he grumbled, getting to his feet. "I'll have you know if I didn't want another piece of pie I wouldn't budge."

Valerie was silent until Bart had slammed the back door. She grimaced slightly. "Sometimes that man vexes me."

"He's _**always**_ vexed me," Perry said.

"He's meant well, Perry. He felt thrust into fatherhood when your father died."

"I needed and wanted a brother," Perry told her pointedly.

"It's not too late. You can still have a brother."

"Not if he treats Della badly."

"Speaking of treating Della badly, how much do you pay the girl?"

Perry frowned. What did Della's salary have to do with anything? "It would be entirely unprofessional for me to answer that, Val."

"I want to make sure you're doing right by her. I like her."

His frown deepened, even though it was good to hear Valerie had gotten over her initial stand-offish reaction. "There isn't a way to ascribe a salary to her value, but she's compensated generously for a legal secretary of her experience."

Valerie leaned her head against Perry's shoulder with a tiny sigh. Bart was right. The only person more enigmatic than her brother-in-law was the lovely Miss Street.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"I've been thinking," Della announced into the quiet semi-darkness of the car.

Perry took his eyes off the road momentarily to smile at her. They had left Gerald and Ginny's house only a few minutes earlier, after endless rounds of good-bye's and glad-to-have-met-you's, and promises to keep in touch. Della had written her Brussels sprout recipe a dozen times and gathered several recipes from his cousin's wives, all while managing to fill plates with pumpkin pie and cheesecake to take with them. "I've learned that can be potentially dangerous," he commented.

Della was glad it was too dark for him to see the blush she felt spread across her cheeks as she forged forward. "You have a fireplace."

"I do indeed."

"It's gotten a bit chilly since the sun went down."

"It has indeed."

"Do you have firewood?"

Perry brought the car to a stop at a traffic light, using the opportunity to turn and face her. "You're unusually cryptic. What are you getting at?"

She heard more than saw the twinkle in his eye and looked down at the plates of food on the seat between them and then back at him. "Pie in front of a fire would be nice."

"It would indeed."

She laughed, the spate of nervousness gone. "Talk about cryptic. Well?"

"I like how you think." He leaned over the plates and pulled her in for a kiss.

She pushed him away when a horn sounded behind them. "The light is green, Chief."

He snapped his eyes back to the road and put the car in gear, stepping on the gas and squealing the tires. "If we time this right, Della, we can make it to my place without stopping at another red light."

* * *

><p>He had never considered feet to be anything but utilitarian – unattractive, workhorse appendages that deserved to be covered up by leather.<p>

But Della's feet changed his mind.

Not quite as long as his hand, gracefully arched, slender toes straight and in proportion to one another, the nails perfectly shaped – even on the baby toe – and painted a deep coral, her feet were incredibly attractive.

She gave a soft sigh as his fingers kneaded the ball of her foot, pulled gently on each toe.

"I don't know how you can wear those shoes," he said, nodding toward the discarded brown suede pumps with three inch heels. He wanted to kiss her feet, take each toe in his mouth and…

"It's not so bad if you wear good shoes. And I do." She wanted him to kiss her feet, take each toe in his mouth and…

"You have a run in both stockings," he reported. "Starting at mid-calf with little holes and running up to…well, running up."

Her sigh this time was one of consternation. "I was so concerned about my skirt on the deck steps I forgot about my stockings." She sat forward in order to inspect the damage as he turned her leg slightly to afford a better view. "They're silk. Maybe I can salvage them to wear with long skirts like this one."

"Speaking of this skirt," he began, and stopped with a grin at the expression on her face. "Okay, back to stockings. Why don't you take them off before the runs get worse?"

She nodded and eased her foot from his hands. "It's getting late anyway. I should be going home."

He reached out and grasped her ankle. "It's not late at all, Della. Stay." His hand moved from her ankle to her calf, from her calf to the back of her knee. His eyes bored into hers. "Trust me?"

She could barely breathe, could barely nod her head. His eyes held hers as his hand slowly slid up the long line of her leg to the top of her stocking, and with a deft flick of his fingers the garter clip was open. Another flick and the second clip opened as well. Neither of them so much as blinked as Perry's fingers slipped between the soft skin of her thigh and the stocking top, pulling it down and off in one smooth motion. He bent his head then and kissed the impossible arch of her foot with warm, caressing lips.

Wordlessly, she withdrew her bare leg from his hands and exchanged it for the one still clad in silk, her trust in him absolute. Perry couldn't help but smile, and her answering smile touched a place deep within him that no woman had ever reached before. With the same nimble movements the second stocking was removed, and the foot thoroughly kissed.

"The under skirt is rustling silk and tulle."

Perry lifted his head from her foot and blinked.

"The noise my skirt makes," she explained. "Rustling silk and tulle."

He tugged on her leg so that she slid down in a reclining position against the couch cushions they had thrown onto the floor in front of the fireplace and stretched out next to her on his side. His fingers played with the soft curls at her forehead and she turned to face him, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. "I've never been so interested in women's clothing before," he said with a dimpled, lopsided smile. His hand dropped to the suede belt at her waist and rolled her hips closer to him. "Women's clothing was always just a frustrating barrier."

"This woman's clothing still is," she said pointedly.

He chuckled. "Translation: stop?" To his great surprise, she reached out and grabbed his shirt, bringing his face a scant inch from hers.

"Baby steps, Chief. Taking off my stockings…that was – that will have to be…oh hell." She pressed her lips to his firmly.

Perry wrapped his arm around her and drew her closer, rolling her onto her back again as her lips parted in invitation. She tasted of coffee and pumpkin pie, and he couldn't get enough as his tongue explored the depths of her soft mouth, her tongue tangling with his, sparring, parrying, dancing; teeth nipping and nibbling at lips swollen with desire. Kissing Della didn't merely increase his need - kissing Della fulfilled it. He had never seen a more beautiful woman outwardly, but it was _**her**_ he wanted, every stubborn, independent, intelligent, witty bit of her.

She pushed at him gently, breaking the kiss, but still nibbled at his lower lip with her teeth. "I can't breathe," she whispered.

"I know the feeling," he croaked in reply, and captured her lips once more.

She pushed at him insistently. "I mean it, Chief. I can't breathe. You're holding me so tight…" she broke off as his lips left hers and wandered down the slender column of her neck, his breath warm against flushed skin. "Ohhhh."

He hovered above her now, his mouth slanting across hers after the delightful detour to her neck to taste her perfume, his arms still holding her against him, but looser now so she could breathe. She discovered it wasn't how tightly he held her that made her breathless. He made her breathless by just being him.

His hand moved to the hem of her skirt, bunched up around her knees and after a second of hesitation, slid beneath and caressed the silken skin of her thigh. He felt her begin to tremble, then to struggle. He withdrew his hand and brought it to her face, brushed back tousled curls. "All right, baby. This is as far as it goes."

She was still trembling in his arms, her lips still seeking his, wanting him, but knowing it couldn't be. "Chief, I – I…"

He touched his forehead to hers. "I know, Della," he whispered.

No, you don't, her mind shouted. Your sister-in-law is convinced my last name will one day be Mason, and I can't allow myself to dream that dream right now, not when so much is at stake. "I'm sorry Chief."

He sat up and pulled her to a sitting position along with him, then cupped her face with his hands. "Oh, beautiful girl, don't apologize. Don't ever apologize when it comes to..." he kissed her "…this."

She managed a faint smile. "Considering a proper apology involves this…" she kissed him "…I won't."

He hugged her to him with a snicker, so damn glad she was who she was. "I think maybe it's time I took you home."

She nodded against his chest. "I have an appointment in the morning."


	12. Chapter 12

_It's done, it's done, it's done! A huge thank you to Michelle W, without whom the story would have stalled at chapter 10 and Thanksgiving dinner would have lasted until Valentine's Day. Stay tuned for 'The Mistletoe Incident'! ~ D _

Chapter 12

He didn't call her until nearly one o'clock on Friday. She didn't answer. So he called a few friends and organized an early dinner and poker game. He spent the rest of the afternoon reading advance decisions, then changed clothes and left his apartment at just before five to meet the boys.

She called his apartment at five minutes past six. He didn't answer. So she called Janet and Evelyn and coaxed them into cocktails and take-out Chinese at her apartment followed by a late movie. She fell asleep ten minutes into it.

He called her at exactly three o'clock on Saturday. She didn't answer. So he pushed a stack of legal journals from the side table onto the floor and took a drive – a long drive – to the desert. But it wasn't as comforting alone anymore and he returned to Los Angeles, dropping in at his favorite neighborhood pub for a solo dinner, more dejected than when he left.

She called him at quarter past seven on Saturday night. He didn't answer. So she dumped the contents of her drawers on the bed and spent the evening sorting and re-folding pajamas and underwear and inspecting stockings for runners. When she came across three ribbons bejeweled with crystal beads she grabbed a pair of scissors, cut the ribbons, and dumped the beads into a decorative tin. But they made too much noise rattling around in the tin, so she dug into her closet and emerged triumphantly with a small, velvet lined wooden box. Then she spent an hour putting her closet back together.

* * *

><p>Sunday morning Perry opened his door at half-past seven and grabbed the newspaper from the rubber mat. Settling himself on the couch with a pot of coffee and a fresh pack of cigarettes, he began working his way through the paper one section at a time, testing his own patience in a personal improvement endeavor.<p>

He had just stubbed out his third cigarette and poured his fourth cup of coffee when the entertainment and gossip section presented itself. And there it was on the front page. And it was much worse than he could have imagined.

He spilled his coffee diving for the phone, his panicked mind momentarily unable to remember Paul Drake's agency number, then when remembered, his shaking fingers failed three times to dial it correctly. Ruth, the evening and weekend operator, recognized his barking voice and immediately put his call through to Paul Drake, who happened to be in his office.

"Paul!" he bellowed.

Paul Drake's voice, weary but calm came over the wire. "Don't worry, Perry. Johnson went over and snatched papers from every doorstep on her floor an hour ago."

"You knew an _**hour **_ago? And you didn't think it important enough to call and give me this tidbit? I told you –"

"Perry, you aren't the only client I work for," Paul interrupted him in that same weary voice. "I've been up for almost two days straight and I only found out myself a few minutes ago. Faulkner got wind of the pictures around six this morning. He said he called, but you didn't answer. Faulkner couldn't spare a man to high-tail it over to Della's apartment, finagle his way in and filch the papers until an hour ago. It's in your hands now. Fire me if you have to, but all Hell's breaking loose over here and your love life has to take a back seat. I wish you luck."

Perry stared at the receiver after Paul hung up, listening to the muffled buzz emanating from the instrument. He slammed the receiver down. It fell to the floor. He repeated the exercise three more times before the receiver remained in the cradle. Damn it. How could this have happened? The photos were supposed to have been suppressed. If he hadn't taken a shower first thing this morning he would have gotten Faulkner's call. But realistically all that would have done was put him in a blind panic two hours earlier.

He folded the gossip section of the paper and stood with a heavy sigh. Grabbing a suede jacket from the coat tree, he flung open the door to his apartment, slammed it behind him, ran down the hall, jerked open the door to the stairway, and pounded down nine flights of stairs to the parking garage.

* * *

><p>Della sat on the couch in her robe, pajamas, and fuzzy slippers, a 'borrowed' newspaper lying on the coffee table in front of her.<p>

She'd thought the phone call at eight-thirty was him. She hoped it was. Although packed with shows and fittings and writing thank-you cards to those who had purchased dresses (she'd written a special personal note to Valerie), the days after Thanksgiving had been empty without him. She'd wanted so badly to hear his deep voice so she could reconfirm why she was exhausting herself working for Estelle.

But it hadn't been him. It had been Janet, her good friend, solicitous yet indignant, offering to drive right over so her shoulder could be cried on. Della told her it wasn't necessary, that she would call later after she actually saw the photos, which she couldn't do because her newspaper was mysteriously missing. She looked up and down the hallway of her apartment building and saw no Sunday papers whatsoever.

She snuck down one flight of stairs and lo and behold! there were Sunday papers lying in front of almost every door. Feeling justified in doing so, she grabbed a paper from a universally disliked tenant and scurried back up to her own apartment before anyone caught sight of her in her jammies.

She lit a cigarette and studied the photos: the very nice picture of her and Perry exiting the courthouse the day she had kidnapped him to the desert just a week ago had been sandwiched between two not so nice pictures of Perry holding a zaftig platinum blonde in his arms, her ample bosom amply displayed. The caption read SECRETARY SQUEEZED OUT?. She could not bring herself to read the accompanying article.

Fifteen minutes later she was on her second cigarette and still staring at the pictures when the security buzzer jolted her from her trance. She let him buzz three times before enabling the door to open.

He didn't bother with the doorbell but knocked, calling her name in restrained desperation as he did so. When she opened the door, he pushed past her, spied the paper on the coffee table, spun around and enfolded her in a silent, crushing embrace, lifting her onto tiptoes and burying his face in her sleep-mangled curls.

"Care to explain?" she asked, her voice muffled by the soft suede of his jacket.

His hold slackened and her feet touched down flat on the floor. "I was hoping you hadn't seen them yet, that I could be the one to tell you. I had no idea they would be published like this, Della."

She extricated herself from his arms and made her way to the couch, where she seated herself cross-legged and indicated the gossip section on the coffee table. "My friend Janet called half an hour ago to alert me. Funny thing, Chief. My paper was missing. So were all my neighbor's papers. Do you know anything about that?"

Perry dropped into a side chair and ran his hands through his hair. "That was one of Paul's operative's hair-brained ideas."

She raised her eyebrows. "Paul and his operatives are involved in this? Why am I not surprised?" She adjusted her robe around her. "Who is she?"

"She's Paul's girlfriend's sister," he told her, lifting guilt-ridden, apologetic eyes to hers, which were strangely blank. "Paul invited her to dinner on Halloween so I wouldn't be alone. Remember – you had a headache so I went to the club by myself. Then last weekend when I was trying to prove I could be a big boy all by myself, he did it again."

"So I'm indirectly to blame for the pictures."

"Of course not. I'm explaining how she happened to be at the same club with me twice. She and her photographer ex-boyfriend set up stunts to bolster her acting career. She fell off a barstool on Halloween and I caught her. That's the first picture. Last weekend I stupidly asked her to dance. She stumbled and I caught her again. Picture number two."

"Fool me once," Della intoned, "shame on you. Fool me twice…"

"Shame on me," he finished ruefully. "I'm sorry, Della. I thought the pictures would only be published in _Spicy Bits_ where hardly anyone would see them. I never dreamed some gossip-monger would do something like this."

She was quiet for a moment, picking at the fuzz on her slippers. "Is this what it's going to be like, Chief - if I don't say stop? Conjecture about your personal life, and - and…ours? Am I going to open newspapers every week and find pictures like this as you become more and more successful? I don't know if I want my picture taken anymore." She wouldn't cry. She would let him know how much this upset her, how angry she was that whatever was happening between them had surged into tawdriness so that small-minded people could live vicariously through his notoriety, but she wouldn't cry.

A lump of fear formed in his throat, cutting off all words. Her association with him had hurt her once before and she'd lost three inches of her hair to a crazed woman. He couldn't stand that it was hurting her again, that she had been publicly embarrassed, especially not now, not when he was so close to having everything he had ever wanted. He heaved himself out of the chair and knelt in front of her, took her hands in his and held them against his heart.

"I hate what this columnist did to you because of me," he said over the lump in his throat. He drew her hands to his lips and kissed the palms gently. "I can't guarantee that pictures of us won't be taken ever again, kid, whether outside the courthouse or at a restaurant or -"

"Or at a Bar Association function, or at the theater," she interposed. She already had three such photos tucked away in her dictionary, pictures of her with him, of him looking at her with more affection than an employer should. She pulled her hands from his and stared at her palms where the warmth and gentleness of his lips lingered. "It's nobody's business but our own what we do, together or apart." What about the upcoming events they were scheduled to attend together? How many photographers would be there to see who he escorted? How many woud lie in wait for their hands to touch or for an exchanged smile that could be misconstrued and misrepresented to a salacious public? All because a gossip columnist for the Los Angeles Times paired a nice picture of her and her boss with pictures of her boss in compromising positions with another woman. Did she really care that much about what people thought of her - people she didn't know and probably didn't care to know?

"You're so right. It is nobody's business but ours." His hands gripped her arms urgently as thoughts that she might leave him, might leave his employ and his life, exploded in his brain. She had a right to her privacy, a right to protect her reputation and not be embarrassed because she was his secretary. Because she was so much more than his secretary. "I need you, Della. I wouldn't be half the man I am without you."

Her eyes met his, those mesmerizing, amazingly blue eyes that of late held a tenderness she craved, and despite her resolve, tears spilled down her cheeks. She reached for him, sliding her arms around his neck and pulling herself up onto her knees to lean against his broad chest, her slight frame atremble with her own need for him. His arms enfolded her, engulfed her, and she knew without a doubt that no man had ever or would ever make her feel the way this man did.

He held her, devastated by her tears, the lump in his throat once again strangling him. She wept silently, clinging to him, her cheek pressed next to his. Finally he found his voice. "Please don't cry, Della. I can't bear it."

She turned her head and sought his lips in a kiss made salty by tears. Chaste by their recent standards, but once again abound with promise, the kiss was an eloquent reply to his fears. His arms tightened. "Oh, Della," he whispered when her mouth left his to explore his jawline. "I promise there won't be -"

She moved her lips back to his, this kiss more promising yet. "Hush," she scolded. "Don't spoil it."

End


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